Dire Consequences
by thegreymoon
Summary: Feilong's love for Asami has cost him a lot. It is about to cost him even more, when another man decides that he wants a lot more than the dragon is willing to give. WARNING: Dub-con, violence, language, angst. PAIRING: Mik/Fei
1. Chapter 1

Title: Dire Consequences 01/?

Fandom: Viewfinder

Pairings: Mik/Fei, AsamixFei, AsamixAkihito

Disclaimer: I do not own Viewfinder or any of its characters. This is a fanfic and I am not making any profit from it.

Rating: R (for now)

Notes: This is an AU ending for NT. The story is not entirely faithful to the canon leading up this arc and is shamelessly ignoring just about everything that came after it. Comments are more than welcome!

Part 01

The solemn docks were desolate and grey. The sea raged wild and the waves rose to frightening heights, smashing against the shore, only to burst into violent showers of foam before dissolving and leaving the land bedraggled and wet.

Two men stood facing each other— different in bearing as much as in appearance. The distance between them spoke clearly of hostility and mistrust. The elegant stillness of the one contrasted sharply with the unruly brightness of the other and they seemed worlds apart, both in heritage and in bearing. They were like the night and day, facing off in a twilight zone, where neither could claim the higher ground.

Asami was dark, slick and impeccable in his smart, tailored suit. His arrogant, utterly controlled poise was like ice to sunlight when compared to Mikhail's far more casual, less overbearing style and the mop of bright hair that curled unchecked from the moisture.

"I know what you did to him," Mikhail said and his open, friendly face did not match the sharp gleam of his intelligent eyes. "But for the life of me, I can't understand _why_ you never followed through! Such a waste! Success was already guaranteed and all you had to do was reap the rewards!"

"I did not come here to discuss Feilong," Asami said with infinite boredom. "My relationship with him is my business. I see no reason to explain my actions to you." He shielded a lighter with his hand and lit a cigarette. The brief spark of flame flickered and died quickly.

"I am disappointed in you, Asami," Mikhail said. "Your taste in all things has always been impeccable and yet here you are, failing in a spectacular manner over something so crucial. _That_ is what you chose for yourself? _Really?_"

"Don't you dare pass judgment on Takaba," Asami growled. "You have no right!"

"No," Mikhail said. "Probably not. After all, it is a man's own business who he shares his bed with, but I just can't help myself! It is unprecedented! The great Asami Ryuichi finally lost his cool and waged a full-blown war in the midst of hostile territory for a futile attempt to reclaim a subordinate whose only value is measured between the sheets! I could hardly contain myself when I heard the news; it was almost too fantastic to be believed! I was very eager to meet this new favourite of yours, because surely a creature whose value you deemed so far above _his_ would be a wonder the likes of which the world has never seen! But after all the trouble I went through to arrange a meeting, the result has turned out to be very..." he paused and his lip curled in distaste as he searched for the right word, "anticlimactic."

"This is a personal matter," Asami said. "So, why are you in the middle of it?"

"Because, clearly, the situation calls for an intervention from someone with common sense and I volunteered for the position, since I am so amply qualified for the job!" Mikhail said. " I had always counted on your sound reason to keep Feilong at bay, Asami, but now that you have decided to join him in insanity, I cannot simply stand by and wait until the two of you kill each other!"

"How is that any of your business?"

Mikhail laughed. "Are you kidding me?" he said, highly amused. "How is it anything _but_ my business? Obviously, I won't pretend that I'd be particularly devastated if you were to meet a vicious and untimely end in Hong Kong, since you're hardly one of my favourite people, but the fact remains that you're a singularly difficult man to replace. It has taken me years to establish routes through Japan and any disturbance caused by your death would be most inconvenient. And as for Feilong… Well. Do I really need to explain at this point why any harm to him is simply _not_ acceptable?"

Asami blew out a grey cloud of smoke and glared with cold, narrow eyes.

"You are wasting my time, Arbatov," he said flatly. "Let's get this over with. Make the call."

"Ouch, temper! By God, you are an impatient man! See? I am calling. There is no need to bite," Mikhail said and pulled out his phone. "I am on your side here, Asami! Nothing could please me more than making sure that you fuck off back to Japan and live happily ever after with your cute, little dog, far out of Feilong's reach. How any self-respecting man can choose a pet over a prince will always be beyond me, but it is a fact that your abysmal taste in such things has made my life so much easier and I am very grateful for that!" He grinned at Asami, who inhaled a fresh dose of nicotine and looked on with apparent disinterest. "Hello? Mishka? It is time. He is here." With a smile, he snapped the phone shut and spread his arms in an open, friendly gesture that Asami deliberately failed to return. "Done," he said. "It shouldn't be long now."

Asami scowled, but then his own cell phone rang and he flicked the cigarette, stepping on it with more violence than was necessary.

"Kirishima?" he said. "Is he all right?"

Somebody who did not know how to look for it would have missed it— the brief flicker of emotion that crossed Asami's perfect, placid face like a fleeting shade; the anxiety in his narrowed eyes, the tightening of his full, handsome mouth, the barely visible tension around his shoulders and then the sudden shudder of relief. His hard expression softened briefly when heard what he wanted to hear and Mikhail saw it all— relishing the brief silence that Asami took to process his emotions— one, long, dizzying moment of faltered concentration which was barely enough to observe the human side of the man long suspected not to have one, before his impenetrable mask slid firmly back into place.

"Get him out of there," Asami said calmly. "Call me when you are clear."

"See?" Mikhail said cheerfully when Asami cut the line. "I am a man of my word. The brat has not been harmed."

"You have provoked me quite enough, Arbatov," Asami said, snapping the phone shut. His elegant hands cut a particularly striking figure in the tight- fitting, custom made gloves of supple, black leather, shielding him like a piece of armour and closing the last detail needed to keep his image in place. "Do not try my patience. I am tired of you already."

"I have kept my end of the bargain," Mikhail replied. "I have returned your boy safely to your men. I trust that you will now uphold your part of the deal and hand over the deed."

Asami tossed his briefcase and the Russian caught it. He opened it, his mouth curving upward as he recognized the documents inside.

"I am a man of my word too," Asami said. "I trust that you are satisfied."

"More so than I can say," Mikhail said. "It is always a pleasure doing business with you."

"You are no pleasure at all," Asami replied and pulled out another cigarette.

"Careful, Asami," Mikhail grinned. "I might be inclined to take offence."

"I don't give a fuck," Asami said. "You may have the upper hand now, but mark my words, Arbatov, if you ever cross my path again, you will regret it."

"And here I thought that we could all be friends," Mikhail drawled and Asami scowled in irritation at the undisguised mirth.

"You got what you asked for and we have nothing more to discuss," he said, turning around to leave. "Stay out of my life, if you know what is good for you!"

A dry, piercing wind wailed as if it was mourning and the dark clouds rolled. The first bolt of lightning flashed over the bruised skies like the stabbing of many blades and it was so near, the thunder which followed made the ground shake under their feet. The vengeful tempest spoke of an ill omen.

"Asami!" Mikhail called seriously. "Wait!" Something different in his voice caught Asami's attention and he turned to see him standing there; solemn and composed, the perpetual mischief in his eyes quenched and replaced by something dark and serious. "You know why I want the deed. You know what I am going to use it for. Doesn't it bother you? Doesn't it bother you at all?"

Asami smirked. He had long suspected that Mikhail wore his brashness, his nonchalance as a mask— very much like he wore his own cool indifference— hiding beneath it a dark and complex personality. He was a dangerous adversary and one that was not to be underestimated. Pity for Feilong that he had done so, but then again, he had always been a lousy judge of character. Asami almost felt sorry for his enemy.

"Hong Kong is my past," he said indifferently. "It is my great hope that this time, it will stay there. I don't care what you do with deed. The Triad is your problem now and believe me when I say this, I _sincerely_ hope that you will get everything that you wished for!"

Liu Feilong.

Asami had met all kinds of people in his life, but even in the cesspool of humanity that he waded through on a daily basis, he had never come across anyone else who was quite so dark and so irrevocably preordained for destruction. Feilong was a dragon and his soul was like a well of anger and pain where the water was ink-black and endlessly deep. It had chilled him and he had nearly drowned in that despair, which was so similar to his own. He could not imagine anyone wanting it, but Arbatov was entitled to his own mistakes and he could not be bothered to care.

Lightning flashed and the wind howled. A black limo was waiting some distance away and Asami walked towards it, without looking back again.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Dire Consequences 02/?

Fandom: Viewfinder

Pairings: Mik/Fei, AsamixFei, AsamixAkihito

Disclaimer: I do not own Viewfinder or any of its characters. This is a fanfic and I am not making any profit from it.

Rating: R

Part 02

The rain was violent and cold. It poured like a veil of black ink and the night was impenetrable. It seemed as if both heaven and earth had merged into a single, great darkness and the human eye could distinguish nothing— until the lightning struck and illuminated the vast, pregnant sky, briefly showing the extent of its turmoil.

Feilong moved like a shadow; silent, swift and invisible, navigating by instinct more than by any obvious mark, but he was not lost. His soul knew the way even after his eyes had failed him, because it was drawn to his ultimate goal like a moth to a flame, regardless of the imminent destruction that awaited him upon reaching it. He had drained his last supply of power and influence for this location and he did not regret it, because he was driven by his obsessions, oblivious to any other road that may still have been open for him to choose.

He saw it at last; a spark of bright, yellow light in the midst of the dense darkness. It was a house in the middle of nowhere and Asami had chosen it as his hiding place until the storm blew over and allowed him to fly out of China, out of his reach and out of his life.

Feilong grinned bitterly as he considered the symbolic irony of it all.

The whole night was like an image of what his entire existence had been; a desperate race through darkness and through storm in a futile attempt to reach the brief light that had been this man who had scorned him. Feilong couldn't let him go, because Asami's promise of acceptance and warmth still haunted him. He could never get close enough to what he needed and was always left stranded just like this— with all that he wanted within his sight and yet very much out of his reach. He hated it all and he hated Asami as much as he loved him, if the dark, twisting need that ate at him like an addiction could even be described as love. Once again, he had been denied, and he contemplated it as he stood out there, waiting in the night. He was cold, wretched and alone— trapped in the pain and his terrible longing. He sneaked forward; careful, alert and very certain that Asami had an army of guards crawling all over the estate. It was unlikely that the man would take any chances after everything that had happened. He would not risk his precious cargo on enemy grounds mere hours after he'd gotten it back.

Feilong perched warily on a protruding cliff, facing the glowing window a safe distance away. He doubted that he would be able to get any closer, because even plain sight showed the tiny spots of black, spreading like insects around the brightly illuminated house. He counted at least a dozen armed guards just on the front porch, each one of them especially dangerous because of their fierce loyalty towards the man that they were guarding. In all the years of plotting against him, Feilong had never been able to integrate a spy successfully within the ranks of Asami's men. Whatever Asami's method of recruiting his subjects was, it still remained very much beyond Feilong's reach, or comprehension.

A bitter pang of wrath twisted as he watched them and remembered the vicious, shameless treachery that he himself was faced with within his own organization. He was betrayed by everyone, even by his closest, most valued allies. They had all turned against him— everyone he had ever trusted— and he still could not decide which betrayal had hurt him more; the one for the sake of profit or the one committed out of love.

When he thought about Yoh, it hurt so much that he had to close his eyes and breathe deeply to regain his calm. His lieutenants had sold him out to the Russians for a promise of power and wealth. Their corruption, their deceit had been like a slap in his face, because he had not expected it. It had dealt a serious blow to his authority— one which he was not likely to recover from— but still, it was the betrayal of his most trusted assistant that had ripped through him like a knife through his gut, because Yoh had been nothing but a mole all along, a cancer growing perilously close to all of his hopes, ambitions and dreams.

Yoh's treason was a strike against him in person, against his integrity, self-respect and his pride, because such incredible devotion, such admirable, enduring loyalty, such obedience and love had never been his to begin with, no matter how much he had cherished them. Asami had cheated him even of that; of the one subordinate that he had been the most proud of having.

Everything he had ever valued had turned out to be a lie.

With resentment, Feilong took out his binoculars and focused them on to the house, inside the warm, luxurious room that was comfortably shielded from the tempest. His heart leaped as he recognized the one he was looking for in there.

Asami was magnificent. The passing time had served only to make him even more beautiful, more powerful than he had been before. He lay on the bed— relaxed, elegant and exposed— leaning against the headboard as he smoked a cigarette, seemingly lost in deep thoughts. He wore only a pair of tight-fitting briefs and Feilong's throat constricted from the very sight of him.

He wallowed in bitter glee as he observed the neat, clean bandages around the man's shoulder and leg, and rejoiced in the meagre, unfulfilling knowledge that Asami would bear his mark for the rest of his life. He relished the moment, letting the old resentments brew, but then the covers on the bed shifted and Asami looked down, adjusting himself to allow a brown, unruly head to make itself comfortable against his bare chest.

"Akihito…" Feilong breathed, the wound on his abdomen hurting and the pain in his chest waking like a ghost memory.

Yes, he was scarred too, marked for all eternity, but on a far deeper level than Asami would ever be. Asami's wounds were superficial and they would heal, whereas he could never recover, because he was dying from the festering pain which only grew larger and more serious as the years passed, showing him clearly just how meaningless all his victories had been. The moment Asami had cut off all contact between them, Feilong had known that he must have regained the boy, so seeing Akihito by his side was no surprise. He had known before he had even begun to look, that if he ever found either of them again, he would find them together.

The only reason why Feilong had ever reached for Akihito had been to keep him away from Asami. He realized now what a futile dream that had been— thinking that Asami would reject his lover if another man had fucked him, or if all else failed, that Akihito himself would push Asami away, unable to endure his touch after he'd been tainted by another's passions. Feilong had taken by force what should never have been his in the first place and it shocked him now to see how easily Asami had reclaimed it all. He should have killed Akihito when he'd had the chance. He should have buried the only human side of Asami he'd ever seen and condemned him to a lifetime of pain and regret. He had only his weakness, his curiosity to blame, because he should have acted before he had gotten to know the boy, before he had realized just how much he lacked in everything that Asami sought in a lover— before Akihito had pitied him when he should have hated and before he had saved the only precious thing that Feilong still cherished by taking a bullet for Tao and showing him the meaning of self-sacrifice.

He was indebted to Akihito now, for saving the child's life. The overwhelming hate that he felt for him brought with it a compounding of guilt as a punishment for the ingratitude, making him long for a time when all his emotions had been clean and uncomplicated. The vicious circle of obligation and resentment destroyed everything— the love and hate that he felt for all the people that had come close to him in life were killing him, just like great escalations of hot and cold turned even the sturdiest of stones into ash.

In the end, the simple truth was that Feilong envied Akihito more than anything else, not so much for all that the boy had, but more because of everything that he was, which allowed him to have it all in the first place. Akihito was loved, he was cherished, and he lay with the man that Feilong had always wanted as his own.

Sleepy, dishevelled, Akihito squirmed against Asami's chest and looked up at him with large, blinking eyes. Asami smiled and said something which must have been very tender, judging from the softness mirrored on his handsome face. Akihito snuggled and Asami laughed, stubbing out his cigarette so that he could reach down to stroke the boy's tanned, slender back. He leaned down lovingly to kiss the mop of his soft, scruffy hair, and Akihito reached up to touch his injured, bandaged shoulder, letting his palm rest there as he drifted back to sleep.

Suddenly, Feilong realized that when they looked at the scars which Asami was sure to keep from this ordeal, neither of them would think of them as a consequence of his need for gratification. They would both remember only that Asami had gained them so that his lover could live, cementing the bond that had been born between them before he had interfered. It was all about perspective and he would never be a priority to either of them. In his endeavour to tear them apart, he had succeeded only in bringing them closer together. He had given his rival a reason never to let go of what he had so badly wanted him to lose.

Robbed of his last comfort and knowing that he only had himself to blame for this ultimate defeat, Feilong ground his teeth to stop himself from crying out in turmoil. He felt the gun at his belt, squeezing it hard as if it was his lifeline, but the wet, cool metal offered him no consolation. What was he going to do? Kill them both? His mouth curved bitterly at the thought. Even if he was to come close enough and elude the hoard of guards that sneaked all over the house, it would be for nothing. He could not kill Akihito because he owed him so much, but more importantly, he could not kill Asami, because he realized now, at the end of all things, that he loved him still.

It was hopeless. The only reason why he was still there— stranded in the middle of the night, chasing in bitter cold what he had already lost in the midst of the bitter cold— was because he no longer knew how to stop the endless train of his own suffering.


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Dire Consequences 03/??

Fandom: Viewfinder

Pairings: Mik/Fei, AsamixFei, AsamixAkihito

Disclaimer: I do not own Viewfinder or any of its characters. This is a fanfic and I am not making any profit from it.

Rating: R

Part 03

Akihito slept easily at Asami's side. He lay very close, with his head pillowed on the man's strong, willing arm. The blaring lights in the room spoke of the enduring trauma which was only beginning to shake him now, when all of it was almost over. It was always easier to endure the actual disaster than the time of healing which came after, and Feilong knew that better than most, because he had still not recovered from his own tragedies, even though years had passed since the last time when he'd been the victim.

A strange, twisting feeling plagued him as he watched them together and it was directed at them both, because as much as he resented Akihito's touch on Asami's bare skin, he felt the echo of that far superior emotion for Asami's touch on Akihito's flesh. He was jealous, and it shocked him to recognize the sentiment for what it was. Asami's long, slender hand stroked lazily over the boy's spine; subconsciously, slowly, like a man strokes a sleepy cat reclining on his chest, but the longer Feilong looked at him, the more restless Asami seemed to become. His hand stopped moving, the posture of his body shifted subtly and suddenly, with no visible transition, there was nothing indolent, nothing lazy about him. He was tense, alert and very much awake. His sharp eyes scanned the room around him and finally fixed on the bare, floor-to-ceiling window.

A sudden realization gripped Feilong him with an uncommon, unflattering fear. Asami _knew_ that he was being watched, even though there was no reasonable way he could have possibly known that.

His thoughts raced over the evening, looking for mistakes that could have alerted this man, but there were none, unless coming to this godforsaken place was a mistake in itself. Nothing could have given him away, because reasonably, Asami couldn't have known that he had found him. In fact, all logic spoke against him being there and he had only the insanity driving him to thank for the situation he was in.

He had not been thinking.

Driven by his rage, he had come, taking no one with him, because nobody would have approved of it. They would have perceived his obsession as weakness and justly so, because a weakness it was, and a great flaw in his image as a leader.

"Asami," he whispered the name, half cursing and half adoring it, realizing with a hollow, sinking feeling just how much jeopardy he had put himself in by being there. The guards still prowled around the house without a major disturbance within their ranks, and that comforted him. Everything seemed calm, except for a raw, clear warning screaming for attention in his heart. He was in danger and the sense of it easily overwhelmed his reasoning.

Stealthily, Asami stroked under the mess of Akihito's hair and over his neck. He leaned down and blew gently on the exposed skin, making Akihito squirm and wiggle away, leaving him free to get out of bed without disturbing his boy's rest. In passing, Asami threw a light quilt over his lean, brown body, leaving only the top of his unruly head visible.

He approached the window with steady, daunting steps and Feilong's mind raced, knowing that Asami was no ordinary human being. His instincts were more those of a beast than of a man; nurtured and tuned to perfection in conditions that he did not even dare to think about, because the darkness that had spawned Asami made even organized crime that had fathered him seem light and benevolent in comparison.

Asami sensed the hostile presence and even though he could not have known that it was out there for a fact, in his dark, cautious mind the two ultimately amounted to the same. He leaned on to the window and the light hit his back, illuminating him clearly. The whole of his lithe, powerful body was visible. His hair was ruffled and the expression on his hard, handsome face was serious and stern. Unwavering, he stared into the darkness, in Feilong's direction, as if he knew exactly where he was, almost as if he could see him through the night.

Feilong shuddered and waited it out, holding his breath as if he was playing some thrilling game and expecting the outcome. It seemed as if Asami was contemplating the situation, thinking, deciding, and then finally, acting. In a swift, commanding motion, he pulled the curtains closed, shocking Feilong with the abruptness of it all. Strangely, he felt an echo of hurt, as if somebody had slammed a door in his face, but he had no time to indulge in the odd feeling. A sudden disturbance, very much like the one he had looked for before, suddenly came over Asami's men, resembling an urgent buzzing of a poked beehive. One of them, the one obviously in charge, summoned the rest and they gathered. He gave a quick, sharp order, motioning with his hands where each was to go. He tapped something at the side of his head- obviously a microphone- listening for a moment to someone who could only be his invisible boss. He spun around and called out a curt command. All the lights around the house promptly blacked out and every trace of life dissolved in the darkness.

"Damn…" Feilong cursed under his breath, stranded in pitch black all of a sudden. The rain poured and lightning flashed nearby, making the ground rumble under him. A disturbingly clear sense of premonition, a strange thread of superstition, warned him that this could not end well, even though he needed no supernatural signs to tell him that he was in trouble.

Whatever he had come there for ceased to matter. All his unclear reasons for still tracking Asami, even after he'd lost all leverage, suddenly became irrelevant and the need for escape turned into a priority. He was miles from the nearest road, trespassing deep on untamed private property, and he had to go back the same way he had come; on foot. The lack of communications was probably what Asami had picked the place for and Feilong did not doubt that Asami had helicopters to get him to where he wanted to go, but he had no such luxury. He was a thief in the night, a scantily armed one at that, and he had to get away before he was caught.

Feilong pulled out his gun, thinking how he would probably have a chance at only one round of bullets if he was discovered. He had nowhere to hide in the wet, miserable darkness and in his haste, he did not even have the time to properly consider where he was going. It would have been easy to navigate in the light of day, but in the dense, impenetrable night, it was more than difficult. The ground was slippery and treacherous under his feet, tripping him as he ran. He imagined that he was a mess; bleeding freely from a gash on his forehead that he had earned by slipping on the dead leaves of the forest floor and hitting himself hard on a sharp, protruding rock. It hurt to distraction; a highlight among a chorus of other, lesser, yet equally annoying pains.

He heard the dogs barking and his blood ran cold from the sound. He could hide from the men in the darkness, but he could not cheat an animal's sense of smell. He could get away from humans, but he could not outrun a dog. This would be his end and he had only his own foolishness to blame. He cursed himself more than he cursed Asami and struggled against the pain as he fought to find his way out. The unbearable cold and the dreadful wet did no good to his old injuries. They were still too fresh for this kind of exertion and several painful jilts were taking their toll.

Breathing hard, he clutched his side and leaned back against a fat, towering tree, taking some comfort in its firm stability and the rough scrape of the wizened bark against his shivering back. His lungs ached as he looked behind, trying to discern through the deep blackness where his pursuers were. He saw nothing, but the sound of barking was terrifyingly near. He brought his gun to his face, pressing the cold, slippery barrel against his lips. Even in the rain, he could still smell the steel and the gunpowder, and the familiar scent of the weapon soothed him.

The brief rest was too short to do him any real good, but he had no more time for it. Ignoring the pain and the weakness, he moved on. His ears perked as the sounds of dogs surfaced in front of him and in a wave of hopelessness, Feilong knew that Asami's men were cutting off the route to the highway. He would not make it out.

His pursuers were closing in around him, starting from the house and the borders of the property, in the shape of a rapidly shrinking semicircle that would finally close and engulf him within it. They would move inward, taking away his room to manoeuvre, until he was finally caught in the middle, like a cornered animal; like a wet, miserable rat trapped in a place where it was not supposed to be. He had nowhere left to run, even if he'd had the strength to try.

With dark thoughts in mind, he secured his hold on the gun and his eyes narrowed in grim determination. He waited, aiming his weapon at the first crash through the fern and branches, shooting at whatever came at him from the dark first. He hit a large, slobbering animal straight between its vicious, maddened eyes and the beast yelped. Carried by gravity that was boosted by its terrifying leap, it fell, and sliding over the wet, slippery ground, it finally stopped an inch away from Feilong's feet.

Gods, how he hated dogs!

The fear was still thrumming through him when he spun around, listening for other sounds and thinking quickly as they approached. He heard a curt command in Japanese, more barking and then the breaking of twigs under many running feet. The rain poured relentlessly and blinded his already unseeing eyes.

He turned sharply to the rustling closest to him and fired again, gratified to hear an agonized cry; this time that of a man. He heard someone call out and to his disappointment, the injured one answered. The bastard was very much alive. Feilong scanned the dense darkness, straining his eyes for any sign of him so that he could finish the job, but the others were closing in, keeping to the cover of the night. He barely saw their shadows as they ran between the dark pillars of trees, but they were too close to him for comfort. He fired almost aimlessly, trying to catch at least one in motion.

There were too many of them for any hope of victory. His heart pounded and his chest hurt abominably as he prepared to die, realizing with a certain amount of bitterness that he had no reason to regret the loss of his life.

He cocked his gun, waiting for them to fire at him first; one moment, then another, and then another. It did not happen, even though he heard the men shifting nearby under the thick, heavy veil of the falling rain. Why weren't they shooting?

A sudden, horrible thought seized him; Asami had issued an order for them to take him alive.

Feilong knew what he would have done if their situation was reversed. He knew what he had done already and there was no reason to assume that Asami would do any less than him. Feilong had never been a coward, but the thought of Asami's wrath was no small cause for fear.

He had shot the man, raped his lover and humiliated him in whatever way he could. The last thing he could expect from Asami now, was an easy death.

He smiled grimly to himself, realizing that this was his end; barren, cold and unsatisfying, like the most of his life had been. He damned it all, cursing his father, his brother, his treacherous allies and false friends. He cursed Akihito, he cursed Asami, but most of all, as he put the gun to his head, he cursed himself.

The barking of the dogs echoed in his ears, the rain poured and the thunder rumbled. His decision was an easy one; the only one he could still make and retain his pride as a man.

He would not give Asami the satisfaction of taking him alive.

Dizzy with a sense of relief, Feilong closed his eyes. His final thoughts revolved around a morbid, yet satisfying realization of how elating it was to finally have a reason to give up. Laughing bitterly at the parody his entire existence had been, he pressed the gun to his temple and with a steady hand, pulled the trigger.


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Dire Consequences 04/??

Fandom: Viewfinder

Pairings: Mik/Fei, AsamixFei, AsamixAkihito

Disclaimer: I do not own Viewfinder or any of its characters. This is a fanfic and I am not making any profit from it.

Rating: R

Part 04

_Click._

It took a long second for Feilong to process that the gun had not fired and that he was still alive. The rain still poured and the dogs still barked. The mind-numbing cold seeped in through his wet clothes and sank into his very flesh, right down to the marrow of his bones. The core of his being throbbed and the discomfort was so vast; it had long since morphed into overwhelming pain.

_Click. Click. Click._

He pulled the trigger again, again and again, unable to believe the sheer extent of his bad luck and the raw cruelty of fate that had taken away even this; his last means of escape.

"_No!"_ he screamed silently within himself. The sound of the empty barrel was both terrifying and infuriating; it was an echo of hopelessness, a monument to betrayal and a prelude to his shame. Even his weapon had given out on him, condemning him to his worst fears and to the ultimate humiliation that was sure to come at the hands of an enemy, who had no reason to feel anything for him but hatred and contempt.

Asami was not a forgiving man.

Desperate, Feilong glanced around, watching the shadows shift. He breathed hard, knowing that he had alerted them to his lack of bullets and that their attack was sure to come quickly, before he had the time to reload. He contemplated whether or not to try it anyway, but it was too late already. A shadow came at him, perilous and swift, and he barely gathered the speed and strength that he needed to repel the attack.

"Take care," he heard one of them issue the warning in Japanese. "The boss wants him alive!"

Feilong was a trained fighter and his desperation, his rage, gave him an edge that he wouldn't have normally had. He fought back like a cornered animal; like a man who no longer had anything to lose.

The heel of his foot struck a man's jaw and he had the satisfaction of feeling the bone crush under the force of the blow. His elbows and knees connected with soft bellies and groins. His lethal fists did not need fire and steel to kill, and they moved like vipers in the dark, striking with flawless precision where the damage was likely to be the worst.

But there were too many of them.

Feilong was raised as a killer. He was an assassin; an impeccably trained machine of destruction, but in his weakened state, he was no match for his enemies and he had known it all along. Asami picked his bodyguards for their competence and even though Feilong was a master in the art of unarmed combat, his opponents were not the kind of men that could be taken lightly, either. But worst of all, they were well rested and focused, whereas he was tired, injured and hurting.

He had never recovered his full strength after being shot by Asami in Japan and it had been too soon for him to go out on his own. The single advantage that he had had over his adversaries was his hopelessness, but even that was burning out fast, under their far superior leverage.

The dogs barked madly, distracting him. In motion, he could see the glint of their angry, evil eyes where they caught the dim light of the torches that were carried by their masters. There were six of them that he could count and the men held them firmly on a leash, keeping them from jumping forward and ripping him to bits. He almost wished that one of them would break loose and spare him the upcoming misery, but it was a loathsome thought. He did not fear death itself, but he definitely feared dying in that manner; at the mercy of a beast that he had feared his whole life.

The sheer horror of the thought was enough to make his concentration falter and that one, fleeting moment was all that his enemy needed to bring him down. He was struck hard and the intensity of the pain was numbing. The white, searing agony flared from his barely healed wound and he couldn't breathe from the overwhelming pain. Seeing red, he doubled over and gasped; unable to cry out. He couldn't summon the strength he needed to get up again and was barely aware of the man coming up swiftly behind him. His infallible instinct told him to duck and he just barely avoided the blow; but he was too slow, too wretched and too injured to react properly and avoid the next one. Something hard struck him on the back of his head and in a flash of agonizing pain, his world blacked out at last.

When he came to his senses again, he was disoriented and confused. It cost him serious effort to take in his surroundings and to his dismay, he realised that he was being dragged along the sludgy path towards the dark porch of the house. He recognized it immediately and in a bout of sheer panic, he struggled to get away, but there was no breaking free. He was held firmly by two men on his either side, each with an iron grip on one of his arms. His violence was answered with violence and one of them struck him hard over the face. He grunted in pain as his world spun out of control and he only barely managed to stay conscious while he was dragged inside.

The basement was dry and warm when compared to the storm outside, but Feilong still shivered miserably from the chronic cold that had taken over his entire system. They forced him into a bare, unlighted room with nothing in it; except the walls, the floor and a simple, wooden chair. A frail, yellow light streamed in from the hallway and before he could gather himself to understand what was going on, a sudden darkness fell over him.

He stopped struggling and twisted around to look. A tall, graceful man stood in the doorway, blocking out the sparse illumination with his back.

It was Asami and he was dangerous, beautiful and dark. He had a unique posture; a bearing that intimidated, that dominated, and Feilong did not fail to be affected, caught as he was, way outside of his domain. His face was hidden in the shadows and only his lean, sculpted jaw reflected the light; contrasting it, like a sketch on black paper made in white ink. The clear outline of his strong body was sharply defined by the brightness beyond and Feilong swallowed; awed as much as he was intimidated.

Asami wore only a pair of pants that hung loosely on his slender hips. He had not bothered with a belt, or the top button, revealing the snugly fitting elastic of his label underwear. The clean, sharply sculpted lines of his abdomen dipped under it; enticing and provoking with a cool, blatant sexuality that was untouchable under all the power and superiority surrounding him.

His feet were silent and bare. His chest was naked, except for the bandage across his shoulder and much to his eternal humiliation; Feilong could not suppress a stab of longing that pooled in his groin, making him stiffen in spite of his hatred, the dread and the shame.

There was a clear message in Asami's failure to dress. His immaculate perfection shielded him; it made him more than human under any circumstances and his failure to don his usual armour, his obvious choice to face Feilong so revealed, was a statement of how much he did not fear him and how little he thought of his coming. Just by standing in front of him so open and unprotected, he demeaned his enemy's presence and belittled him as a man.

Asami's subtle mocking did not fail to hit its mark and shamed by such a blatant display of power, Feilong swallowed the bile that rose to his throat.

"You were right, sir," Kirishima said, somewhat startled by his casual appearance and the dangerous mood that he was emanating. "We caught an intruder."

Asami cocked his head towards him and the light fell sharply on to his jaw; under his straight, narrow nose, accentuating his crisp, handsome features and stressing the lines of a face that seemed almost unreal in its overwhelming perfection. His full, shapely mouth quirk upward in a cold, passionless smirk and Feilong flushed with rage at the utter disdain that he saw reflected there.

His own appearance did him no favours and he knew what he looked like; wet, bedraggled and anonymous in the tight fitting black that had allowed him to sneak through the night unseen. His face was covered, but he did not doubt that Asami had known who he was from the moment he laid eyes on him.

Soundless on his bare feet; Asami strode forward, spreading an air of power and of malice. His evil, narrow eyes finally came into focus and with his head tilted to the side, he looked at his captive intently, measuring him from head to toe and letting him feel his contempt. Feilong breathed hard; burning from the obvious slight and humiliated by this play of superiority.

He shuddered to his core from Asami's proximity. The heat of the man's bare skin washed over him and he held his breath as he waited for him to make his move; barely managing to hold back a cry when the ski-mask was roughly wrenched off of his head.

Long, dark hair tumbled free in a wet, tangled mess and Feilong refused to lower his gaze as Asami smirked at him.

"Well, men," he said. "It seems like we have a snake in our midst."


	5. Chapter 5

Title: Dire Consequences 05/??

Fandom: Viewfinder

Pairings: AsamixFei for this chapter, Mik/Fei overall

Disclaimer: I do not own Viewfinder or any of its characters. This is a fanfic and I am not making any profit from it.

Rating: R

Part 05

Shadows sprawled over Asami's handsome face like an evil mask and his eyes glinted pale gold in the scarce light. They appeared very bright and malicious in the dim darkness and Feilong almost couldn't recognize him like this, as if he was not even a man, but a demon spawned by his worst nightmares.

"I must admit that I did not believe that you'd have the nerve to show your face here, after everything that you've done," Asami said in cool amusement, "but I guess that I should have learned long ago, to never underestimate the depth your foolishness."

His long, elegant hand glided down Feilong's cold cheek in mock gentleness and the tiny whisper of warmth reflexively made his entire body respond with longing. Outraged by his weakness, he shuddered and hissed; wrenching away from the touch, because he found Asami's tone very bitter and degrading to swallow.

"You have stolen from me," he said clearly and raised his head with unwavering pride; surprising even himself with the steadiness of his voice. "I have come for what is mine."

Asami's brow arched sharply and he smirked, but his eyes remained dangerously dark.

"I… have stolen form you?" he said. "Hn… let me think. If my memory serves me well, then I would have to say that the roles were reversed."

He wrapped his fist in the dark length of Feilong's drenched hair and pulled; holding him firmly and forcing him to look up straight at him, easily quelling his struggles with a vicious jerk on the heavy plait. Breathing hard, Feilong glared at him with intense hatred.

"Yes, I believe that it was you who stole from me first," Asami went on, undaunted by Feilong's narrow, deadly eyes. "I believe that it was you who walked into my territory, wreaked chaos on my land, killed my people and walked away with the single most precious thing that I have. You started this, Feilong. Did you really think that there wouldn't be consequences? That you could get away with it, without losing anything in return?"

"Started it?" Feilong said incredulously. "Oh, I think not, Asami. We both know who started this! You came to my land, into my world and wreaked chaos there first. I counted on you and you abandoned me! I trusted you and you betrayed me! I loved you and you rejected me, and all that I have ever done since then has been for you and because of you! You came into my life and destroyed everything! Because of you, I lost my family. Because of you, I lost my freedom. Because of you, I lost my self-respect! I am entitled to my compensation, because before you, I had my pride! Before you, I was a man!"

"You were never a man, Feilong," Asami breathed. "I am not responsible for your mistakes! I never was. You were nothing but a slave then, and you are nothing but a slave now. You were never the master over your own destiny; always looking to someone else to solve your problems, instead of doing something about them yourself. You cry over your miserable fate instead of taking it into your own hands and your denial aggravates me! I am tired of accusations, when the only truth is that you are weak. You don't even begin to understand real power, and that is no fault of mine!"

"How dare you?" Feilong seethed with incandescent rage. His face was pale and his eyes were burning. "I have fought, I have killed, I have taken! Everything that I am now, I have created myself; with my own hands, wit and toil. I have fought impossible odds and come out on top when I should have rightfully been dead, and you still dare to call me weak?"

"Yet you threw it all away as if it was nothing!" Asami replied. "And for what? To get back at me for not taking part in some distorted, one-sided, romantic fantasy of yours that has no ground whatsoever in the real world?"

Feilong blanched at his words.

"Why, you…" he ground out hoarsely, but Asami took no heed of his obvious distress.

"You may have risen to power," he said, "but you don't know how to use it. At the pinnacle of your might, you threw your empire to ruins, just to get my attention. You neglected your duties and your men; letting them fight among themselves like a pack of rabid dogs, until they finally turned against you and bit at the hand that was feeding them! You were always so absorbed in your self- pity and pain, that you could never see what was right there, in front of you! Instead of building something for yourself, all you did with your wealth and influence was to destroy, so how can you demand anyone's respect; let alone mine?"

Feilong laughed madly.

"Yes, I was never good enough for you, was I?" he said bitterly. "But you know what, Asami? I got over that! I swallowed your rejection even though it nearly choked me. I bridled my resentment even though it nearly threw me, and yet after everything; after you had scorned me, neglected and insulted me, you chose that_ child_ as your lover! This is what I cannot forgive! After all these years that I spent hating you, longing for you, thinking of you, you chose _him_ to love?"

"You are not the same," Asami said simply and there was no explanation, no apology in his voice; only a simple statement of fact.

"No, we are not the same!" Feilong raged. "What is it about him, Asami? What does he have that I do not? You will tell me; now, at the end of all things! He is a scruffy brat with no style and no common sense! He can't even tell black from white under his rose-coloured glassed! Gods above, he is even useless in bed, such as he is; with his utter lack of skill, or any semblance of grace! I have tried to ferret out his qualities more than once, just to see what the hell it is that you are so fascinated with, and am most disappointed to report that I have utterly failed!"

Asami's eyes narrowed dangerously and his nostrils flared as his fist tightened the long, messy hair.

"It is not wise to push me, Feilong," he growled. "You have more than enough to pay for already. I might have been inclined to overlook anything, except for this and you should have known better! I warned you. I warned you not to touch him! Whatever happens now, you only have yourself to blame."

"Blame?" Feilong seethed in anger. "Oh, let's not start with placing the blame, Asami. I am not the one responsible for this. It was not me who has made us into what we are now! I am not the one who put a river of fire and blood between us! You have brought us to this point! You have wronged me! You have hurt me! You have betrayed me! You were the one who started it all!"

"I started nothing," Asami replied and words were cold, cruel and clear, "and it is time that you faced the facts! 'We' never existed. I promised you nothing. I owed you nothing; because to me, you always were nothing!"

Feilong stared at him, speechless for a long moment.

This was the man that he had loved. This was the man that he had thought of, dreamed of and suffered. This was the man who had rejected him and thrown him aside, like an unsatisfying morsel on his quest for larger prey. This was the man who had mortally wounded and then saved him, only so that he could live on in pain.

"You twisted, evil bastard," he breathed out hoarsely at last; his dark eyes huge, injured and insane. "You will not walk away from this with your hands clean! You will not dismiss me. You will not ignore me. You will take responsibility for what you have done! You may have never loved me, but you tricked me nonetheless! You seduced me. You abandoned me. You have robbed me! You have hurt me! You have _murdered_ me! After everything that I have done; after what I have become for you and because of you, you will not stand there and say that I imagined it all! After all the damage that you have caused me, I shall not be ignored! Not by you. Not anymore! I may be all that you say I am, but it was you who made me like this! Because of you, I am what I am now!"

Asami's hold on his hair tightened and he smiled coldly.

"You are so pathetic," he said. "It is no wonder that your family found it so easy to take advantage of you."

"What are you talking about?" Feilong said, white faced and aghast.

Asami grinned.

"Oh, I think that you know," he said, "you just can't bring yourself to admit it yet! You are pitiful and weak; always begging for approval and attention! Always begging for love! There is a reason why your father never acknowledged you. A reason why your brother never respected you. It is because you never deserved it!"

"Bastard!" Feilong roared and lurched forward with mindless rage. "Don't you dare mention my father's name!"

Asami stepped closer; his heat, his presence, washing over his captive. Viciously, he tightened his grip on his nape and pulled; forcing his head back.

"Why do you think that I chose you, Feilong?" he hissed. "Out of the whole of Baishe, why do you think that I chose you?"

"Don't say it," Feilong warned dangerously. "Don't you dare say it!"

Asami grinned coldly, vindictively.

"Because of your father's entire organization, you were the easiest one to use," he said cruelly, his words twisting deep. "You were their weakest link. I chose you, because in the end, after I got what I had come for, you would have been the easiest one to discard."


	6. Chapter 6

Title: Dire Consequences 06/??

Fandom: Viewfinder

Pairings: AsamixFei for this chapter, Mik/Fei overall

Disclaimer: I do not own Viewfinder or any of its characters. This is a fanfic and I am not making any profit from it.

Rating: R

Part 06

"Bastard," Feilong breathed.

A steady fever shook his body and he shivered. Hot, stinging tears welled from the humiliation and it cost him every ounce of his already shredded strength to keep them from falling, though he could no longer hide them, because they glinted like stars in the midst of his dark, tortured eyes.

"Really, I had thought you smarter than this," Asami continued. "You should not have come near me again."

The man's impeccable mask had cracked, showing all the ugliness of his prolonged distress; his deep weariness, his inner demons, his unbridled anger and the pure hatred that shocked Feilong as much as it hurt. For years, he had dreamed of Asami looking at him with anything but the calm, superior aloofness that had made his pride writhe in torment as he lay awake at night, remembering the utter dispassion of his gaze. He had wished for at least his hate, when he could not have his love, and he would have settled for anything rather than the demeaning indifference he had always received.

He had not known the true nature of what he'd desired, because now he realized that he had not been prepared for the pain of actually having his wish come true. Asami's hate was a powerful, toxic thing and it was not easy to endure.

"I am not afraid of you," Feilong ground out, reeling from the onslaught of unbearable anger and grief. He did not mourn the death of the love that he had dedicated so many years of his life to, but the fact that it had never been real to begin with.

Asami's eyes narrowed and his mouth twisted in an evil, humourless smile. His hand in Feilong's hair tightened painfully.

"Oh, but you should be," he said grimly. "All this chaos. All this waste. You should have stayed put in your little lair, Feilong. You should not have challenged me. But I think that congratulations are still in order. For all this time, you were desperate to get my attention, even though I had done my best to remove you from my life, and now you finally have it."

Feilong smirked at him and his eyes glinted.

"Do not think for a moment that you intimidate me!" he mocked. "What's the worst you can do? Kill me? Death is a mercy after all the damage that you have already done."

"Kill you?" Asami replied, raising his eyebrow as he echoed his words. "Yes, I will kill you, but there are many ways for a person to die! I just can't make up my mind what to do to you, now that you have so foolishly walked straight into my grasp! You see, Feilong, it is not just my bare existence that you have threatened! You came after my integrity. You made a fool out of me. You discredited me. But worst of all, you went after _him_, and he is the only thing that I value more than my own life!"

Feilong drew in a sharp breath and Asami smirked.

"That's what you are afraid of hearing, isn't it?" he taunted. "Yes, I love Takaba. I love him like I could never love you. You are so deeply flawed, that for all your beauty, all your wit and sophistication, you still cannot even begin to compare to what he is, because there is nothing in you that a man could possibly love."

"Don't!"

"Takaba is life," Asami continued anyway. "He is light and he is warmth, while you are nothing but darkness, ice and death! Yet, you still dared to lay your hands on him. You dared to defile him with your touch."

Feilong laughed.

"I should have killed him," he hissed malevolently. "It is my fault, really, that I didn't do it; thinking that you would never sink so low as to actually love the scruffy little rat, but it seems that I overestimated you! If I had guessed the true nature of your feelings sooner, I would have sent him to you in pieces and watched you fall apart over his death! You deserve to love and to be loved, Asami, only so that you can lose it as soon as you are able to appreciate the true weight of what you could have had! You deserve to see the other side of darkness, so that you can suffer all the more once you are plunged back into it, without any hope of redemption!"

"Shut up, Feilong," Asami growled, his eyes glinting like twin blades in the dim light and Feilong smirked, clearly seeing his enemy's greatest fear for the first time. He reeled with regret that he had not realized it sooner, because he had been too caught up in his own pain to really understand anyone else.

"I hope that Takaba will never purge the poison that I have poured into his soul," he went on, undaunted. "I hope that he will bear my mark on his spirit for as long as he lives. I wish him a slow, painful death by your side; so that you can watch his descend into ruin while you are unable to stop it and when that happens, I hope that you will remember me!"

"That… will never happen," Asami said tightly and Feilong purred.

"Oh, but it will," he said. "If what I have done is not enough to kill him, I have confidence that you will finish the job yourself. You see, Asami, you do not need me to destroy him. You will do it with your own two hands, because ultimately, you are just like me. You are evil. You are darkness. You are death. He will not survive by your side."

He watched as Asami's face twisted from his words, becoming so distorted with hate, that in spite of the man's beauty, it was almost hideous to see. His grasp tightened unbearably in Feilong's hair, but he laughed at him, long passed any comprehension of pain.

"Just killing you is not enough," Asami growled. "What I want for you is all that you have done to him! I would burn every scar that you left on Takaba's soul right into your flesh, if the very thought of touching you did not disgust me so profoundly, even if it was to destroy you!"

Mad, angry and visibly hurting, Asami seemed barely human as he delivered his threats; leaving Feilong with little doubt that he meant every word.

"But there are other ways of getting my vengeance," he said. "There are thirty five of my men here with me. None of them have the same issues with you that I do. You are pretty enough and I bet that each one of them would be more than willing to… give me my satisfaction."

"You twisted, evil, son of a…" Feilong whispered, his face draining of all colour.

"It would be fun to watch," Asami went on, terrifying in the calm that he had wrapped around the heat of his rage. "I wonder how many you could take before you finally bled to death under one of them, but I do hope that it would last a long, long time and give you the chance to fully appreciate the gravity of your mistake."

"You wouldn't dare!" Feilong said in a low, lethal voice and Asami smirked.

"Wouldn't I?"

A sudden disturbance cut him off and he tensed all over. Sharp and alert, he turned; his ears pricking to the sound of running feet and the overall clatter of cursing, tripping and scuffling. Feilong stared towards the open door in surprise.

"Asami! Where are you? Asami!" the shrill call echoed down the hallway. "I want to see Asami! Let me go! Do you hear me? Let me go, you ugly, stinking, crazy… goon!"

It was Akihito's voice and it was both angry and afraid. Surprised, Asami loosened his grip on Feilong's hair at the sound of his name on those beloved lips and all the malice was wiped from his face in an instant.

They heard the muffled voices calmly trying to reason with the unruly boy, but it was followed quickly by a sharp yell, when one of the men was either kicked or bitten by the feisty prey he had captured.

"Asami!" Akihito shouted, obviously giving those who were holding him back hell for getting in his way. "Where are you, Asami!"

Feilong tried to call out, but Asami spun around at once and pressed his hand over his mouth to silence him, as if sensing his intent.

"Quiet," he breathed threateningly when Feilong struggled against him. "You will be quiet."

Feilong thrashed, but he could not break away. His muffled, frustrated cries suffocated him, because he was firmly held on both sides by two of Asami's men, with one of Asami's unrelenting hands at the back of his neck and the other over his face; immobilizing and trapping him completely.

"Asami, you bastard, where are you? Asaamiii!" Akihito still yelled at the top of his lungs and a patter of running feet brought a new pair of eyes to the door. Feilong knew him. He had seen him often enough with Asami, on the pictures that his spies had sent him over the years. Kirishima. That was the name, and he was flustered and out of breath as he looked up at his boss from under his dark glasses; reverent in his presence and afraid of his wrath.

"Asami- sama… what do we do with him?" he asked, not needing do elaborate.

He seemed tentative and uncertain, as if they were dealing with something sacred and rare instead of a spirited, hot-headed boy and Feilong had to resent them for it, even though he understood the sentiment. Asami, the god of their little world had almost died for this angry, reckless child and that alone made the brat precious beyond anything else that they knew.

Bitterly, he smirked to himself. His nostrils flared as he breathed, struggling to contain all his anger and madness before it choked him to death.

Asami beckoned to one of his men with a sharp nod of his head.

"Keep him silent," he ordered. "Takaba must never know that he was here."

Feilong's eyes widened in outrage and he opened his mouth to scream when Asami released him, but the other was already behind him; taking the opportunity to gag him. A dry, coarse cloth was stuffed down his throat and a scarf that cut painfully into the corners of his mouth tied around his head. He gagged immediately and struggled for dignity, trying to regain his composure while his pupils glinted with a bright, desperate fever.

Watching Asami leave, he seemed barely human, torn and beautiful as he was. He was drenched and pale, but still gorgeous in the midst of his defeat; with his long, black hair falling around him in a mess of exquisite silk. Yet, Asami barely spared him a glance as he stalked outside, wrapped in his darkness as if in a cloak while he hurried towards his lover's distressed call.

Feilong hated him like he had never hated before, and a single, demeaning tear fell down his flawless face; marking the beginning of his end.


	7. Chapter 7

Title: Dire Consequences 07/??

Fandom: Viewfinder

Pairings: Mik/Fei overall

Disclaimer: I do not own Viewfinder or any of its characters. This is a fanfic and I am not making any profit from it.

Rating: R

Note: Yay, Mik! LOL, yeah, everyone, here he is! Just a quick note here: in the light of how NT ended, it is likely that the character of Mikhail is very OOC in this fic. And since I've received complaints that certain parts of my story are disturbing and need to have appropriate warnings, here goes:

Warning: There is none for this, I think… except for the fact that since this is AU and it abandoned the actual VF plot somewhere around NT 12, Uncle Yuri is still ALIVE here and back for vengeance! *laughs evilly*

So, if that didn't freak the hell out of you all, please, read on, but it is a pretty boring chapter though…

Part 07

It was three in the morning by the time when Mikhail finally exited the conference room, with Yuri on his heels. His men immediately jumped to attention, groggy from waiting out the endless hours he had spent inside; negotiating the leverage he needed to obtain what he wanted, and yet keep his own empire from collapsing under him in the process.

Mikhail paid them no heed. He stalked past them and they scrambled after him to keep up with his demanding pace. His head throbbed and he did not bother to hide his irritation. His mouth was pressed tight, brows drawn low and his eyes shadowed and dark. The tension of his strong, agile body was so dense, it was almost visible. He had won that night's battle, but just barely, and his men knew him too well to question his mood.

He vented his ill temper on the elevator buttons when it refused to come as soon as he'd have liked, and he punched his fist into the wall when the evil piece of machinery refused to budge under his violence.

"Mikhail, calm yourself," his uncle reproached and the man's reasonable tone grated on his nerves so badly, it was sickening. "We are not alone yet. They are watching, so do not give them the satisfaction of seeing you lose control."

Mikhail flashed him an angry glare, nearly growling at him, but Yuri met his gaze evenly, totally unfazed by his ugly mood. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Chinese shifting quickly out of his sight and he knew that the man was right. Breathing in deeply, he closed his eyes and counted, waiting for the mad hostility clouding his judgment fade.

With a melodic chime, the elevator door opened, almost surprising him, because his worry and weariness had almost made him forget what he was waiting for.

Sighing deeply, he went inside and fell back against the wall. His men followed and the door slid shut. The sheer need for sleep throbbed to the marrow of his bones and he gave into his exhaustion as the elevator hummed on its way upwards. He kept his eyes closed, drifting on the hazy edge of consciousness for the duration of the ride. He heard his people talking among themselves, but their voices seemed somehow distant and unreal, because though he knew what the words they were saying meant, his overloaded mind could put them together into coherent wholes.

The silver chime sent a shuddering thrill down his spine and he snapped to full awareness. He caught the disapproving glare of his ever watchful uncle and taking a deep breath, he bit his tongue not to say anything when Yuri opened his mouth to speak. He chose to ignore him, boldly striding out ahead of them all as soon as the door slid open, but the man hurried after him, undaunted.

"Mikhail, wait!" he heard him call, but he refused to obey.

"I am not in the mood," he said tightly when Yuri caught up anyway.

"I don't care whether you are in the mood or not," Yuri replied. "You will hear me out. Mikhail, this is… What the hell…?"

The sudden ringing of a cell phone cut him off and he pulled the little device out of his pocket to stare at the ID.

"Thank God," Mikhail muttered under his breath as his uncle quietly fell behind, walking away from the company to take the call. It was probably something important, but Mikhail was too tired to care.

"I don't want to be disturbed," he told his men and he swiped the card at the entrance of his luxurious apartment.

"Of course, sir!" they said and automatically took up their positions there as his personal guard.

He shut the door on them and the dim lights automatically came alive when he stepped over the threshold.

Breathing out a sigh of relief, Mikhail fell against the closed door. The thick, welcoming silence soothed his frayed nerves and he threw back his head, rubbing his nape with tired hands. Moments later, he caught himself nearly falling asleep right then and there, still dressed and standing. Yawning, he walked into the bedroom and groaned as all his cramped muscles protested when he stretched.

Carelessly, he discarded his jacket and looked out through the unveiled, floor-to-ceiling window, to see the storm still raging through the night. The sharp, golden spears of lightning flashed within the impenetrable darkness, but he was too sleepy to appreciate the wild beauty of it all.

It had been an incredibly productive day for him. The negotiations with the Triad had gone well, but then he had never doubted that they would, because the price of the Baishe underworld was only money after all, and he had more of that than he could ever possibly spend.

His plans were finally coming together and the trade-off with Asami had gone down just like he had wished. The casino deed was his and the man himself was probably on his way back to Japan and out of Feilong's life for good; along with the constant ache of what he had meant to the Triad dragon and the dim possibility that the two of them would ever resume their ill-fated romance.

As bewildered as he was by Asami's choice in men, he could not help but to feel grateful for his odd taste, because it left the road clear and wide open for him to claim what he wanted. Even though he was intimidated by the major part that Asami had played in Feilong's life, he wished him the best of luck with his feisty little lover, as far away from Hong Kong as he could possibly get.

He was close, so close to finally having the man of his dreams, that he could almost taste his skin under his lips already.

"Feilong," he breathed, closing his eyes and leaning his hot forehead against the cool glass. "It won't be long now."

Yet this nagging sensation that had been trailing him for the whole day was still with him, raising the red flag of alarm, even as he mentally recounted all his achievements. It throbbed in his chest like a chronic ache; cooling a little, only to resurface a regular interval later, reminding him that something was very wrong in the midst of all his success. It was as if a thread of a dark, mysterious force was working against him; crawling up the current of his good fortune and undoing the fruit of all his efforts. He had a feeling that something was awry, but he could not quite pinpoint what exactly it was. His mind raced in futile circles, but no matter how much he thought about it, how carefully he examined his actions, he could find no flaw in his plans. Everything was going well… almost too well, except for that gnawing, crawling sensation that all his endeavours were about to fall apart. It was beyond frustrating; the feeling of having something at the tips of his fingers, only to see it pull away when he tried to reach for it.

An ill omen lingered over the entire night and he was tense and expecting, fearful that by the time this menace exposed itself, it would be too late for him to do anything about it. Slowly, he began to undress, almost tempted to forego the shower he desperately needed in the favour of just collapsing on the spacious, comfortable bed.

The door behind him clicked open and he spun around in surprise, only to see Yuri come inside without knocking; easy and comfortable, as if he wasn't invading his privacy at all.

"I believe I said that I didn't want to be disturbed," Mikhail said icily; his hands leaving his belt half unbuckled as he strode away deeper into the apartment, barefoot and bare-chested.

"You are nowhere nearly old, or powerful enough to deny me entrance yet, child," Yuri said. "I have something to say and you had better listen to me. My opinion is still of value to you."

Mikhail snorted in derision and looked at him coldly.

"The shock of the day when you don't have an opinion on my private life will probably kill me, uncle," he said and the man frowned.

"When your private life spilled over to include the entire organization, it stopped being private," Yuri said. "I can't stand by and be silent when you are risking so much for this ridiculous infatuation."

"It is none of your business," Mikhail said tightly.

"It is my business, Mikhail," Yuri replied. "It is not only yourself you are putting in danger here, but all of us, too! This is the Baishe! Have you forgotten that? A snake is a snake, Mikhail! Even if its colours are pretty to look at, it is still poisonous. Do you really think that you are competent to handle one and not get bitten?"

"Uncle…" Mikhail said wearily.

"Your father must be turning in his grave now."

"Leave my father out of this."

"How can I? He had such high hopes for his children and you are his only living son! You are the only one who can still see his dreams come true, but you still choose to waste everything he's done for you, everything that you've become, everything that you can still be, just to satisfy your base, impure needs!"

"Uncle," Mikhail said, "now would be a good time to stop."

"God will punish you, son," Yuri said dramatically, his fist clenching and his face bulging in the fervour of his belief when Mikhail rolled his eyes with infinite boredom. "He will smite you down with His mighty ire for your unholy desires! He will ruin you for indulging in sin! He will destroy you for your lack of humility and unwillingness to repent! Your arrogance and your lack of faith are unrivalled!"

Mikhail waited out his rant with disinterest and yawned widely when he was done.

"You just can't stand it, can you?" he said lightly. "The fact that you no longer have the power over what I do or do not do. I am the master of my own actions and it is eating you alive."

Yuri's eyes glowed subtly. His fists clenched and his nostrils flared as he struggled to contain his rage.

"All I ever wanted was the best for you," he said hoarsely and Mikhail's mouth curved upward in a cold humourless smile.

"Only the best for me?" he said, almost sounding amused. "Well, I am sure that you think that's true, uncle, but you know what they say. The road to Hell is paved with good intentions."

With that, he turned and walked towards the bar, feeling Yuri's eyes burning on his bare back and lingering on the terrible scars there. It shut the man up nicely and Mikhail grinned darkly as he poured himself a much needed drink.


	8. Chapter 8

Title: Dire Consequences 08/??

Fandom: Viewfinder

Pairings: Mik/Fei overall

Disclaimer: I do not own Viewfinder or any of its characters. This is a fanfic and I am not making any profit from it.

Rating: R

Warning: Nothing life-threatening here... Mik continues where he left off in the last chapter. Yuri warning again, but nothing worse than that (and still no smex *cries*)!

Part 08

"This has nothing to do with me," Yuri said in a soft, angry voice. "What you are doing is wrong and you know it, otherwise you wouldn't be so defensive about it!"

"Wrong?" Mikhail said, balancing the glass in his fingers, his gaze unwavering as he looked straight into the man's eyes. "I assure you, uncle, very little of what I experienced had ever felt more right to me than this. I must have him. I will have him and there is nothing that you can do to stop me. And just for the record, I am not the one who is defensive. You are being offensive. Note the difference there?"

"Mikhail, not only is he a man, he is of the Triad too," Yuri said, ignoring his last remark. Mikhail could tell from the way the protruding veins throbbed on his temples and the forcefully dry evenness of his voice that he was trying hard to keep his cool, and it interested him to see how far he could push him before he cracked all over. "He is the whore son of a whore. His very existence is the evidence of betrayal. His entire life is marked with treason. He was born with it, he lives by it and he will die from it. If you would just think about it with a clear head, I am sure that you would realize that you couldn't possibly want something like that in your life!"

Mikhail had heard that speech from him so many times already, that it no longer had the potency even to make him angry, let alone intimidate him into backing away, but it amused him to see his uncle bring up the same story over and over again. His utter lack of creativity had never ceased to amaze him, and he thought wryly that it was a good thing that the recounting was both interesting and close to his heart, since he was forced to hear it multiple times.

A whore son of a whore. The first time he had seen Feilong, he had been struck by his sorrow more than by his unearthly beauty. He was a sculpture; a human masterpiece with perfect bearing, a perfect face, a perfect mask and limitless power at the tips of his slender, perfectly manicured fingers, yet he was broken inside, with a gaping gash in his soul and a vortex of darkness screaming within it that both thrilled and terrified. A deep sense of tragedy covered him like a veil, soaking through him onto everything that he touched. The dark well of bitter pain that Mikhail had seen in his deep, coal-black eyes could not have possibly been the work of one lifetime, but rather something sinuous that stretched over generations of unhappy fates.

It made sense, because something as beautiful as Feilong could not have come into existence, unless it was to be so deeply flawed. It had stopped the breath in his chest to see it and he had known that he must have him, or die from longing if he couldn't, because being smitten by something like him was not an ailment that a man could recover from.

"He is all that I want in my life, uncle," Mikhail said.

"You cannot mean that!" Yuri cried out aghast.

"He is the other part of my soul," Mikhail continued. "The missing part of me that will make my destiny complete. You cannot stand against that."

Yuri snorted in derision.

"The missing part of you?" he said. "Don't be so dramatic! We all know what this is about! He is beautiful, I will give him that! With such a pretty face, he is capable of driving even the best of men to transgression and I understand that, but was there really a need for all of this? Couldn't you have just fucked him and had it over with, so that we can all get on with our lives, without you getting yourself so deeply involved in the criminal underworld? You know what you are risking… We cannot allow your hands to get dirty over… this!"

"Tsk, uncle," Mikhail admonished with superficial humour that hid his real displeasure. "You really should not use such nasty language when speaking of him. It is… inappropriate when addressing such a sublime creature. And no, I couldn't have just _fucked_ him, as you so crudely put it. It's not his body that I am after. I want everything that he has to give; all his darkness and his pain. I want to draw it out of him until there is no sorrow left in his soul and I can finally pluck the untouched flower of his contentment sleeping under it. I do not want just a night of passion with him. I want a lifetime of having him by my side! I want to quench the sorrow of his eyes and finally have him look at me with love. I want him to be at peace in my arms, so that I can find my own fulfilment in his. And if having that means getting my hands dirty, then so be it! Your goals are not my own."

"Be careful what you say, you little fool," Yuri said in a low, angry voice. "You do not get to choose your goals! There is a lot more riding on your fate than just the satisfaction of your base desires! Do not forget that!"

"I have never neglected my duties, so don't you dare bring that up now!" Mikhail said, a touch of real anger breaking through his voice for the first time. "The one has nothing to do with the other and you know it, so don't try to make this into something that it isn't!"

"Even if that is so, what makes you think that you will succeed in this madness?" Yuri sneered. "You now have Liu Feilong's precious deed, along with the guarantee that his men will turn against him when the time comes and you think that it is enough? Do you expect him to love you for it? For making him a captive in his own world, in his own home?"

"Don't you worry about such details, uncle," Mikhail said with a patient, patronizing smile that he knew drove the man out of his mind. "He will love me in time; he just doesn't know it yet… It is a matter of technicalities that I shall not need the help of the organization with, so you have no need to concern yourself with the mechanics of our future relationship."

"You don't know what you are doing!" Yuri flushed bright red from the lewd implications in his nephew's words. "He will destroy you and your fall will bring down the rest of us too! For Heaven's sake, Mikhail! There is still time! Go back to Moscow and leave this mess behind! It is not too late to salvage your reputation!"

Mikhail yawned and looked at his uncle with bored disinterest in his sleepy eyes.

"It is too late, uncle," he said. "When I go back to Moscow, it will be with him by my side, or not at all."

He loved doing this to him, letting him get all worked up and then pulling up the wall between them. He knew that there was nothing that Yuri hated more than knowing that he was being ignored and he made it blatantly clear, taking satisfaction in watching his gloved hands clench. Yuri's bloodshot eye twitched in its socket and his mouth tighten as he struggled to hold down his rage.

"I will pray for you, my son," Yuri said hoarsely, trembling all over from his fragile restraint. "I will pray that you see the error of your ways and repent for your misdeeds!"

"Is there a point to all of this, uncle?" Mikhail said irritably, finishing his drink. "Or are you just picking on me because you know that you can?"

Yuri stared at him, taking a moment to regroup his thoughts and put them back on to the track that had brought him to Mikhail's rooms in the first place. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes slowly. His fist clenched once more and his entire arm trembled as he brought himself under control.

"Actually, there is," he said calmly, savouring the news he was bringing with vindictive glee.

Mikhail raised a brow at him.

"And?" he questioned. "Are you going to tell me, or are you just going to wait until your preaching puts me to sleep?"

"Oh, I doubt very much that you will be sleeping after this," Yuri said. He smiled thinly; the creases around his mouth giving his face an ugly expression. "I just got a call from Wong Liu of the Baishe."

To his satisfaction, Mikhail flinched visibly.

"Wong Liu?" he said. "What did he want?"

"It seems that there is a major flaw in your brilliant plan." Yuri said, rolling every word in his mouth as if it was a delicious treat. "Ah, the Baishe… you can never trust them to do what you would expect of them, now can you?"

"What are you talking about?" Mikhail said; impatient, concerned and not bothering to conceal it.

"Your precious Feilong is missing," Yuri delivered the blow with mock concern, enjoying the wealth of emotion that his nephew revealed for the news.

"Missing?" Mikhail's eyes narrowed dangerously. "What do you mean missing?"

"I mean exactly what I say. The Baishe doesn't know where he is, so they thought that they should call you, just to check if you had something to do with it. If you had, perhaps, put your plans into motion without notifying them first."

Mikhail slammed the glass he was holding on to the counter, bristling all over from barely restrained violence.

"And why did they call you?" he hissed. "Why didn't they call me directly?"

"Oh, they tried," Yuri said lightly, not hiding how much he was enjoying this little vengeance; his just compensation for being ridiculed and always passed by for as long as the golden-haired young man in front of him could get away with it. "But it seems that your cell phone has been off for the entire night! And still is, as far as I can tell."

A cold dread twisted in Mikhail's gut when he realized that Yuri was right. He had forgotten to turn it on after exiting the conference room.

"And why didn't you tell me this at once?" he said angrily, but Yuri just raised an eyebrow at him, undaunted.

"I am telling you now," he said calmly, watching intently as Mikhail reached for his discarded shirt and redressed with a dark expression on his handsome face. "Really, son, you should pay more attention to what is going on around you, if you are going to start getting yourself involved with these shady individuals. You never know what can go wrong in their treacherous world."

"You can gloat later, uncle," Mikhail reproached and ran his fingers through his wavy, messy hair, as if that would help him clear his racing, muddled thoughts. "I don't have the time to fully appreciate the venom of it right now. How long has he been gone?"

"You mean Feilong?"

"Yes, I mean Feilong," Mikhail snapped, the tone of his voice clearly saying that he had been pushed as far as he would go. "Do not play with me! This is serious!"

"The last time anyone recalls seeing him would be around 9 pm," Yuri said, knowing better than to bait him any further.

"It is now… half past three," Mikhail mused, pinching the bridge of his nose. "That means that he has been gone for… what? Six… seven hours?"

"Well, it is still nothing drastic, to be sure," Yuri said strolling over to the bar and pouring himself a drink in Mikhail's glass. "But with Asami still on the loose in Hong Kong, one can never be too cautious."

"I imagine that Asami is long back in Japan by now," Mikhail said, distracted by his worry.

"Do you?" Yuri said, dropping a few chunks of ice, one by one, into the drink and watching Mikhail wince in irritation as each one of them clanked against the glass. "Even if that had been his intention, how did you expect him to get there? The weather is on a rampage. All traffic over both air and sea has been put on hold. Oh, I imagine that Asami is still very close to us all."

Mikhail stared. The evil foreboding, the thread of ill fortune that had been trailing him the whole day, suddenly became very clear. Yuri was right, Asami was still there and he was sure that whatever had caused Feilong to disappear had his fingerprints all over it.

Yuri took a long sip of the dark liquid, his entire face twisting as he savoured it in his mouth.

"Besides," he said, "it was a bit much to expect that Asami would just pick up and leave peacefully after everything. Don't you think?"

"Seven hours," Mikhail whispered to himself, imagining the worst. Seven hours was a long time. "We have to find him!"

"Who?" Yuri raised his eyebrow. "Asami?"

Mikhail picked up his jacket and glared.

"If you are not going to be helpful," he said coldly, "then at least have the common sense to know when to shut up!"

He strode outside and violently slammed the door behind him. Yuri stared after him for a long moment, with a smile on his thin, waxen face. He drowned the drink in his hand in one go and finally, gave into his growing compulsion to laugh.

There was a God watching over him, after all.


	9. Chapter 9

Title: Dire Consequences 09/??

Fandom: Viewfinder

Pairings: Asami/Akihito for this chapter, Mik/Fei overall

Disclaimer: I do not own Viewfinder or any of its characters. This is a fanfic and I'm not making any profit from it.

Rating: R

Part 09

Takaba was calling for him. Takaba was afraid and he was calling his name.

His Akihito.

The sound of fear on those beloved lips chilled him to the marrow of his bones, because he now also knew what it meant to be afraid. He had come close, so perilously close to never hearing that voice again, that the very fact that it could happen terrified him now, when he could no longer pretend that losing him would mean nothing.

By all rights, Takaba should have died and it would have been his fault. He had rejected him and denied him, because he'd been too much of a coward to own up to how much he needed him; how he craved for his company and how he made him feel whole and complete after he had been empty and alone for as long as he could remember.

If he had only admitted it sooner and kept Takaba by his side, instead of letting him go off alone on that awful day when his entire world had turned against him, the entire disaster that had followed afterwards would have been avoided.

But, he had been too busy and preoccupied to deal with him then and knowing this choked him, stealing his breath when he tried to push it down. He had to stop for a moment and lean against the doorframe with trembling hands to regain his bearing, before he summoned the clarity to go outside. He no longer cared at all that his enemy was still there, within eyesight, and perfectly capable of witnessing his weakness.

Only Takaba mattered to him at this point.

He saw his boy at once and every angry, violent and protective instinct within him flared to see him so desperate and afraid. He was held in place by men twice his size and he recklessly fought against them anyway, with his hair dishevelled and with tears streaming down his pretty face. He kicked viciously as he struggled to get free and utterly failed in his attempts.

"Let him go!" Asami ordered with more urgency than he would have liked and the screaming bundle of brown and gold ceased its writhing at once, surprised by the sound of his voice.

Takaba's big, expressive eyes were frightened and huge; somewhat both shocked and relieved to actually have him appear, even though he had demanded his presence with such loud clarity. With pain, Asami realized that Akihito had not expected to see him again, when he had woken up and not found him by his side.

"Let him go," Asami repeated in a calmer tone, quite frankly embarrassed by the utter shock he saw reflected on the faces of his men, who frozen into stillness by the tone of his voice. At once, they did as they were told and Akihito tumbled on to the floor in front of them, bewildered, but unrestrained.

Asami moved towards him, yet before he had made so much as two steps, Takaba was up again and he threw his arms around him in a blur of colour and motion.

"You are such bastard," the boy sobbed against his chest, squeezing him so hard, his wounded shoulder hurt almost too much for him to bear it without letting the pain show, but he could not bring himself to push him away. "You promised me that you would never leave me again!"

"Akihito, why are you here?" he asked sternly, kissing the ruffled hair. "What happened?"

"I… I… woke up and you weren't there," Takaba sniffled and rubbed his eyes with the ball of his hand. "It was dark, it was cold, it was quiet and I… I thought…"

Suddenly, his big brown eyes narrowed and he eyed the gathering of Asami's dark, suited men all around them suspiciously.

"What is going on here?" he asked, pulling away from Asami in sudden mistrust, knowing without being told that there was some mischief ahead. Asami frowned in displeasure as he bemoaned the fact that his normally oblivious, chronically naïve boy chose to become decidedly clever at exactly the wrong moments.

"Takaba, let's go," he said firmly and took a hold of his wrist, to lead him back up to where he had come from.

"No!" Takaba protested vehemently and snatched his arm away, scowling and growling at Asami's men, who immediately steeped forward to restrain him at his command. "No! You will not treat me like a child, damn it! You will tell me! What the hell is going on?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Asami said simply, the bored, indifferent mask slipping over his face by habit. "There's nothing going on!"

"You are lying!" Takaba accused, knowing better than to trust him over this. His eyes flared and he turned towards the dark, open door Asami had exited moments ago, with every intention of walking inside. Asami sighed in resignation, catching a hold of him again before he could.

"Takaba, come!" he commanded in a voice that clearly said it would bear no argument and pulled him back violently. The boy hissed at him, struggling to wrench his arm free, but failing because even with him injured, Takaba was no match for his strength. His grip was iron and Takaba yelled at him in frustration, calling him colourful names.

"You bastard!" he screamed. "You fucking bastard! It is that Feilong again, isn't it? You lied to me didn't you? You lied like you always do, when you said that it was over and that we were going home!"

He balled the fist of his free hand and struck Asami hard over the chest, irritating his barely healed wound and making him hiss in pain. Surprised, Asami let him go to press his hand over the throbbing injury and Takaba gasped in horror, realizing what he had done. With the door and the mystery of what was behind it forgotten at once, he rushed forward and cupped Asami's face between his trembling hands.

"I'm sorry… I'm sorry!" he chanted in fright, kissing him in supplication. "I didn't mean to, please, I didn't mean it!"

"Takaba, come with me," Asami said firmly and put his arm around the boy's slim shoulders. Cowed into submission by his own thoughtlessness more than he could have been by anything else, Takaba did what he was told, with no more than a single, regretful glance behind.

Asami purposely remained silent all the way to keep him complacent, until he finally pulled him into the spacious bedroom. He closed the door behind them and locked it. The light inside was dim and soothing, because the fire had died down to just a few glowing embers.

"I'm sorry," Takaba began miserably as soon as they were alone. "I didn't… I..."

"You didn't mean to," Asami finished lovingly for him, stroking his face with both of his hands. "I know."

Takaba's large eyes shimmered unhappily and his full, swollen mouth trembled. Asami kissed him gently, loving his warmth and wanting nothing more than to hold him close and make love to him slowly, tenderly, like he had never done before. The boy sank into his embrace gratefully and wrapped his arms around his waist. He pressed his moist lips first against his chest and then, standing on his tiptoes, tentatively, carefully over his bandaged shoulder.

"Asami, please," he begged. "Let's go home."

"We are going home," Asami reassured him, holding him close as he trembled. "As soon as the rain stops."

"I know… that there is something going on," Takaba said softly. "I know that there is something that you are not telling me."

"You are imagining things," Asami lied. "There is nothing going on. At least, nothing that you should concern yourself with."

"Yeah?" Takaba scowled at him. "Then why have you got an entire army of your goons down there, in your basement?"

"They are in charge security," Asami said simply. "They are just doing their job."

"Is there a security breach?" Takaba asked in alarm, tensing all over against him. "Has the Baishe found us after all? Are we in danger?"

Asami stroked the hair away from his forehead, doing the best he could to smile for him, which was not a particularly successful effort.

"No," he said. "Nothing like that. There has been a minor disturbance, that's all, but it was a false alarm."

"You are telling me the truth, aren't you?" Takaba said suspiciously.

"Yes," Asami lied. "I am telling you the truth.

"You promised me that you would leave Feilong alone," Takaba said grimly, too intuitive to let him have the last word on this.

"What?" Asami said in surprise.

"You promised me that you would not go trying to kill him for this!"

"Takaba, he hurt you," Asami said sternly. "He raped you. How can you not want to see him dead?"

"I don't want him dead!" Takaba wailed desperately. "Please, Asami! I… I know what you are and what you do! I... I know what you have done! I know that you have killed before and that you will kill again and I… I can live with that, but having you kill because of me... That is not something that I could bear."

"Akihito…"

"Please, just listen to me," Takaba demanded with tears in his eyes. He clenched his fists and his entire body trembled from tension and strain. "If you kill for me and because of me, it would be worse than if I had done it myself and I… I cannot do that. I am not you, Asami. I cannot become what you are and survive it. Can't you understand? I cannot live with the stain of Feilong's blood on my soul! I don't care what happens to him! Please, I just want to go back to Japan. I just want to go home… with you."

He threw his arms around Asami's waist and cried in misery. Asami reached down slowly to stroke his trembling back; fighting with the sudden, dark terror of his own. A frightening vision, like something from a dream, flashed in front of his eyes. It seemed to him suddenly that if he went back on the word he had given Akihito; the word which he had had no intention of upholding at the moment when it was given for no other reason other than to soothe a distraught, frightened boy, then this bright, unexpected light that he had found would die out right there, in front of him, and he would be left alone in the dark once more. This time, for all eternity.

Takaba should have died. By all reason, he should have lost him and he only had some mad luck to thank for getting him back.

Yoh had failed him; refusing to commit the ultimate betrayal when the time had come and Asami cursed himself, knowing that he was responsible for it, because he had underestimated the depth of the man's infatuation with Feilong. Almost there had been nothing that he could do. Almost. He didn't even know which gods to honour for sending him Mikhail Arbatov, the obsessed fool.

For weeks, he had not even allowed himself to think about what he would have done to Takaba, if he'd been the one in Feilong's place and had the core of his enemy's beating heart within the merciless grasp of his hand.

Just by acknowledging what Feilong could have done, what he had expected him to do, he realised how close the both of them had been to the precipice.

"Please, Asami," Takaba whispered and his tears were warm against Asami's bare skin. "Please, just… take me home."


	10. Chapter 10

Title: Dire Consequences 10/??

Fandom: Viewfinder

Pairings: Mik/Fei overall

Disclaimer: I do not own Viewfinder or any of its characters. This is a fanfic and I'm not making any profit from it.

Rating: R

Part 10

The rain had stopped and dawn was in the air. Dark, swollen and bruised; the heavy clouds were moving apart to reveal a red horizon and allow its light to fall upon the abused, ominously quiet earth.

Hours. It had been hours now; hours of waiting, of not knowing, of negotiating, and each second was like an eternity when he did not have a single one of them to spare.

Mikhail Arbatov stared at the telephone with bloodshot eyes, unblinking as he waited for it to ring. His hands trembled and he clasped them together in front of his face to keep them still. Asami was behind this, he knew it, because it was impossible that he wouldn't be. In the midst of all his careful planning, of all his daring, his triumph and success, he had overlooked the single most important thing.

The depth of Feilong's obsession. The power of this… darkness, this madness, that his dragon called love.

Of course, Feilong would not sit by quietly. Of course, he wouldn't just let Asami slip through his fingers, this time probably forever, after he had been so close to… to whatever it was that he had hoped to achieve by baiting the man. Did he think if he hurt him enough and humiliated him, he would finally show Asami how strong he was and that he was finally worthy of his attention? Perhaps even worthy of his love?

Of course he had gone after Asami on his own, because he would have understood that he could not count on his organization for this. His pride would not have suffered it, to have them know that he had lost both the deed and the infamous Takaba Akihito. That he had been outwitted and outmatched on his own front, on his own ground, in a battle that he himself had started with a totally misguided, miscalculated risk.

Of course, he would rather face death than the humiliation living to see the next day dawn on a defeat as profound as this one was, without at least putting up one, last fight.

Ignorant little fool.

Mikhail smashed his fist on the tabletop and cursed himself. How could he not have foreseen this? He had only his own vanity to blame, because subconsciously, he could not bear to think of Feilong with another man, no matter how doomed that relationship was. The reality of Feilong's feelings was too distressing for him to acknowledge, because when he tried, when he remembered Asami and the way Feilong's entire face changed at the mention of his name; how his body shuddered and his dark, beautiful eyes widened, becoming vulnerable and injured for just a moment, before they hardened into two splendid gems of hatred and pain; his own chest felt constricted and he could not breathe from sheer agony.

He had thought only of the future, never of the present, focused on the day when he would have his precious dragon trapped, caged and alone, and when he would purge every last thought of Asami from his heart, mind and body. When he would break him, only to put him back together again and teach him to love once more.

An antique styled clock ticked on the wall, breaking the otherwise perfect silence and Mikhail could not bear the constant reminder of the passing time. Roaring in frustration, he snatched it down and hurled it at the wall; getting little satisfaction from seeing it shatter. The door opened and Yuri stared at him in shock.

"Mikhail…"

"What do you want?" Mikhail yelled, spinning around like a storm to face him.

Yuri regarded him coolly, his lips curling in disdain at the disreputable sight of him.

"Temper, temper, my boy," he reprimanded as he stepped into the room, much to Mikhail's irritation.

"I really, really don't want you around me tonight," Mikhail said through clenched teeth, very much on the edge and about to lose control.

"Why not?" Yuri sneered. "So that you can go on with this stupidity unchecked?"

"It has been a long time since you had the power to check any action of mine, uncle," Mikhail said. "I will do as I please."

A flash of malice raced over Yuri's face, so fleeting and quick that Mikhail would have missed if he hadn't known it would be there. Anger, hate and resentment. He saw it, only because he had been aiming for it. He enjoyed it and fed on it; throwing the man's greatest discontentment in his face and watching it eat away at him.

It was nothing, but just compensation for what Yuri had done to him when he'd had the power to do it. The power that he no longer possessed.

"I will at least say my mind," Yuri said, composing himself quickly enough.

There was something dry, raspy in his voice; a steady monotony to his tone, a hiss that whispered beneath his words like the quicksand of an hourglass and very little that he said was anything other than judgment and malcontent.

"Then, by all means, speak quickly!" Mikhail roared. "And get out of my sight when you are done!"

Pity he couldn't kill him. Pity he couldn't at least banish him from his life. Pity he was the only family that he still had alive.

"Twenty seven million?" Yuri said incredulously. "You are letting them wire out twenty seven million? Mikhail, are you out of your mind?"

"I assure you, I am perfectly sane!" Mikhail snapped, though he looked anything but in possession of his senses. His hair had gone wild in a flame of dishevelled curls, his eyes were bloodshot and raw, his clothes unbuttoned and his face distorted in rage. "I love him. I want him. I need him. My entire body yearns for him and I do not sleep at night, thinking of him, my mind plagued by the memory of his face both in waking and in sleep, so do you honestly think I give a shit about money in the face of the slightest chance that I may still get him back?"

"Even if you do get him back alive," Yuri said, his lips curling in a sneer, "what makes you think you'll get him back unharmed? Feilong is pretty enough. Arrogant enough. If I was Asami, I know what I would do with him and it would not be nice. Are you sure that you would still want him then? Wouldn't it be better to see him dead, rather than to get him back so defiled?"

Mikhail snarled and lunged forward, snatching Yuri's collar and slamming him into a wall.

"Shut up!" he breathed heavily, their faces only centimetres away. "Just… shut up! You fucking bastard… Minute after minute, hour after hour, I think of him with that… that man! The least I can expect is to now find him dead and yet it keeps playing out in my head… that single scene, like a bad movie… like a broken record. Asami touching him. Asami having him. Asami's hands on his precious, white skin. His lips on his pale, tearstained face…"

He closed his eyes and shuddered deeply. It took him a long moment to recover and when he did, he threw Yuri across the room, making him stumble and sprawl backwards on the floor.

"Get the fuck out of here," he ordered in a low, barely controlled voice. He made his way back to the desk and sat down to stare at the phone once more. "Or I'll do something that the both of us will later regret."

Visibly shaken, Yuri raised himself into a sitting position and straightened his collar, dusting his coat with trembling hands. Mikhail had his eyes closed; no longer paying him any heed and it angered him beyond endurance to know how little he mattered in his nephew's life since his coming of age, when he had grasped full control of all of his assets. As his legal guardian after his parents' death, Yuri had been the god of Mikhail's world; a firm, relentless lord, who now found his massive fall from power very hard to take.

His thin mouth curled in a bitter grin.

"I knew his mother, you know," he said and had the pleasure of seeing Mikhail's questioning eyes open, to look straight at him with wide curiosity. "Feilong looks just like her, the whoring, treacherous bitch."

Mikhail flinched at his words and his eyes narrowed, but he did not dare to protest his tone, lest he stop speaking completely and Yuri basked in this last shred of power he had over him, over his insatiable need to know; always to know more about the object of his obsessions.

"She certainly was a sight to behold," Yuri continued in malicious satisfaction. "No man could be unaffected by her beauty. When she passed, everyone stared, but that is no wonder. I've heard stories that she came from an eight-hundred-year-long line of high-class concubines that served emperors and generals, of women bred into sexual servitude for their looks, skills and erotic appeal. She had centuries of tradition and allure running in her veins."

Mikhail stared, helpless and intrigued as Yuri got to his feet and eyed him with wicked, glinting eyes.

"Liu was so infatuated with her, he worshipped the ground she walked on," Yuri went on, walking over to look out through the window. "He owned her, body and soul, but a caged bird will always long for freedom and Tou offered it to her, in return for certain… services. He was a powerful man, even then, at the beginning of his rise to power. She thought that he would clear her unclean name. She thought that he would marry her. That they would live happily ever after. The fool that she was, she believed his every word; believed that he loved her and that he was the man of her dreams. Her saviour."

"What happened?" Mikhail asked in fascination and Yuri cocked his head towards him.

"You know what happened," Yuri answered. "She was nowhere nearly smart enough to pull of the treason Tou was asking of her and bring about the downfall of Liu. She got pregnant with the wrong man and Liu found out everything. She ran to Tou for protection, thinking that he would welcome her with open arms for the blessing she thought she was bringing him and had all her sweet, sugar-coated dreams fall apart around her.

"Of course, he never loved her. Of course, he was just using her. He beat her to a bloody pulp for not being careful, for allowing herself to conceive, but most of all for admitting everything to Liu and for revealing his name. All his careful planning to take over the Hong Kong underworld was spoiled and all she had to show as compensation was a bastard child. As if he would ever recognize a son of a whore as his own. As if he would ever want his blood mixed with her blood. As if he would ever accept someone so dirty and low as the mother of his children. He was a respected man, for god's sake, happily married, a politician at the start of his career and he would not have his name blemished by her shame.

"She gave birth in the most miserable of circumstances; hunted, wretched and abandoned. By the time Liu found her again, she was barely a shadow of her former self. I heard stories that he killed her like an animal right in front of her son, but that he could not bring himself to kill the child too, because he was so beautiful. Because he had her eyes and looked so much like her.

"You see, even though she had betrayed him and spat on everything he had given her, he loved her. Though she had scorned all the riches he had lavished her with, only to bear the son of his worst enemy, he loved her. Even though he killed her, he still loved her. That was how powerful the sway of her beauty was over him. That was why he took her son in as his own. That was why Feilong lived, even though he should have been put down like an unwanted cub even then!"

"That's an ugly way to put it," Mikhail said, visibly shaken by the tale.

"For God's sake, open your eyes, Mikhail!" Yuri said harshly. "This is what you are risking so much for! Lies, treason and deceit! Liu Feilong was spawned by the deepest of hell and he will never leave it! It is not his destiny to rise above the misery that both birthed and fathered him!"

A sudden, urgent knock on the door made both of them turn. The man outside did not wait for permission to enter and stuck his shaggy, blond head inside.

"What?" Mikhail asked, as if awoken from a dream.

"Sir, the transfer is complete," he answered. "At any moment now, they will call with the location."

Mikhail took a deep breath, and looked around. The sun was rising, the clouds where waning and finally, the accursed phone rang with the information he so desperately needed to know.


	11. Chapter 11

Title: Dire Consequences 11/??

Fandom: Viewfinder

Pairings: Asami/Fei, Mik/Fei overall

Disclaimer: I do not own Viewfinder or any of its characters. This is a fanfic and I'm not making any profit from it.

Rating: R

Part 11

Cold, he was so bitterly cold.

Feilong shivered all over. He was gagged and tied down to a chair; wet, sick and hurting. His head throbbed in monotonously steady intervals, the pain slowly increasing, until what had been a constant buzz of discomfort turned into white, screaming agony. His raw throat burned and the gag suffocated him. He thirsted and when he drifted off into uneasy unconsciousness, which lasted no more than seconds at a time, he dreamed of running water that he couldn't reach.

Footsteps echoed in the hall beyond the closed door and he perked up in attention as he recognized them, steady and intimidating, even with the lingering limp from a barely healed gunshot wound.

It could have been minutes since Asami had left him, bound and alone, or it could have been hours. Either way, it made no difference to Feilong, because in his miserable state, even seconds felt like an eternity. The dark, windowless room told him nothing, buried under the ground as it was.

A grave. This was to be his grave and suddenly, Feilong felt a deep, painful longing for clean, fresh air. He wanted to look upon daylight once more, to feel the warmth of the sun upon his skin and maybe for the first time, it occurred to him that perhaps the pain he had spent years clinging on to, was not worth dying for, after all.

The bitter irony of coming to that conclusion, of considering the possibility of letting go now that it was too late for him to do anything about it, made the taste of bile rise in his throat. He would die and he would die alone. In the darkness. In the cold.

Muffled sounds of men speaking on the other side of the side of the door seemed very loud in the otherwise dense silence, but he still could not make out what they were saying. The door creaked menacingly and a flood of sudden light blinded him, making him screw his eyes shut and cringe away. He blinked, trying to adjust to the change and Asami's face slowly came into focus. Impassive men shut the door behind him and Asami smoothly tapped his cigarettes, putting one in the corner of his generous, sensual mouth.

The lighter flicked and he drew in a long breath of smoke, before looking up and straight at his captive. He exhaled a cloud of grey, his face an unreadable mask of cool indifference, of arrogance, but his eyes were dark and alive… and rich with emotion. He was fully dressed once more, perfect in his custom made suit, impeccable with his neat hair slicked into obedience and brushed back from his face.

Feilong glared, his eyes wet and burning. He was very much aware of the contrast in their appearance, with his drying hair wild and escaping from its braid, his wet, dirty clothes, his pale face beaded with hot sweat from the rising fever which made him shiver, yet burned him inside, tormenting him, confusing him and making him dizzy when he needed all his presence of mind.

"It is ironic, isn't it," Asami said, "when the one you have hurt the most comes to your enemy and begs for your life."

Feilong stared, uncomprehending.

"He made me promise that I would not come after you," Asami continued. "My Akihito. He made me promise that I would not kill you on his behalf."

Feilong flinched from the name, his brows low over his narrow eyes.

"At the time," Asami went on, "I was so happy to have him back, alive against all odds and safe in my arms, that I would have promised him anything! Unfortunately, I had never counted on having to uphold it. I had never counted on you coming after me once again, or on how much I would want to see you dead and destroyed, if you ever did! You are lucky, Feilong, so very lucky that he was here to remind me of my word and to impress upon me just how seriously he takes the promise that I have given. And unbelievably fortunate that I am now so afraid of losing him and his affection, that I would rather walk all over my pride than risk him ever finding out that I lied."

His handsome mouth lifted in a bitter parody of a smile.

"Congratulations," he said. "You can be very proud of yourself, because you have taught me the meaning of true fear. Without you, I probably would not have realized just how much I now have to lose."

Feilong growled at him, wanting to scream his hatred for such an insult, but the gag was firm and it muffled all his words, his protests and cries. His throat ached and a dry, agonizing cough choked him, forcing him to settle down. Asami waited it out, smoking impassively and looking at him with cold, cold indifference.

"You nearly destroyed me, Feilong," he admitted simply, confident to say it now that he was so utterly victorious and in control of the situation. "Of all of those who had tried, and yes, there have been many of them, you were the only one who had actually come this close to achieving it! So, I guess that I am fortunate too. Who would have dared to foresee it? That the one man who would spot my weakness before I dared to acknowledge it myself, wouldn't know what to do with it when the time came? That the one man who obtained the power to bring me down, would fail to strike the deciding blow? But that has always been your problem, Feilong. You have always had the potential for great things, but always lacked the strength you needed to actually get them done."

Feilong thrashed his head in a vain attempt to dislodge the gag that was choking him, silencing him. Asami took one long drag on his cigarette, burning it out, and then throwing it down to press upon it with his heel. He took a step closer and crouched in front of the bound man, to be at eye level with him as he continued to speak.

"Yes, I will admit it," he said, "because there is really no use in pretending otherwise in front of you now. I love Takaba. He is the light in my darkness, the single beacon of meaning in my life that I had been hoping for in the midst of countless, identical days of no colour and purpose for a long, long time. As unlikely as the odds of that happening ever were, he became my great hope for happiness, for companionship after many years of loneliness. You cannot even begin to know what he means, because if you had known, you probably would not have let him live, now would you? You would not have given me the chance to get him back. So, you see, I am very grateful for your incompetence."

Feilong breathed hard, his nostrils flaring as he glared. Asami smirked.

"Yes, I know," he taunted. "I am such a despicable bastard. You hate me. Blah, blah. I have heard about it already. All your troubles are my fault, while you wallow in your self-pity. But this has got to stop. I refuse to take the blame for your misfortunes any more. You say that I wronged you and I probably did, but we are even now. You wanted me to suffer, and by gods, suffer I did! You wanted me to hurt and hurt I was! There is nothing that I owe you now.

"You wanted an explanation and I shall give you one. Yes, I seduced you. I wanted the route over Hong Kong and you were by far the easiest means that I had at my disposal for furthering my goals. From the moment I saw you, I knew you would do anything; betray anyone, just for the promise of acceptance and love! And don't you dare place the blame of what happened solely on me, because none of it would have ever worked, if you hadn't been so easy to manipulate! It was a perfect plan and it should have been effective, if only I could have made myself go through with it! It should not have been difficult to take you to my bed and keep you there, because gods know, you are pretty enough! It should have even been pleasurable for us both, but most of all, it should have been easy. Though I never loved you, I never intended to cause you this… pain. But I admit it; I underestimated you, your strength, your madness and your darkness. Yes, abandoned you, because after I got to know you, I couldn't bear to have you near me. You reminded me too much of myself and it was… nauseating."

Tears of anger, of denial welled in Feilong's eyes and he struggled to keep them from falling, even if it was obvious that they were there.

"You wanted closure?" Asami said. "I shall give you closure. Yes, I tricked you. Yes, I seduced you and yes, I betrayed your trust. But I saved your life when I should just have let you die and I did that out of guilt, because I knew that I should never have touched you in the first place. I gave you your life over the innocence that I had taken and I at least think that it was a fair compensation. As for the rest of the disaster your life turned out to be, I shall not be held accountable. I did not kill your father. The entire mess of his death is a consequence of something that predates me by a long, long time, but you cannot bring yourself to face the fact that the truth of the matter is something much closer to home, because it is so much easier to blame it all on me. You are an intelligent man, Feilong. I am sure you could easily get the details you need if only you tried, but frankly, I don't care what you do, as long as you leave me out of it in the future."

He got up, wincing slightly from the pain that the position must have caused his injured leg, and straightened his suit. Feilong was quiet, waiting for him to finish, eager to hear what else he had to say and hating him for every word.

"You may wonder why I am telling you this," Asami said, "but I realized that Takaba has a point. I don't want your blood on my hands. I do not want to carry you on my soul. I want you out of my life, so that I can have a fresh start, without having to think of you ever again, and since I do not want to go through all of this seven years down the line, it is essential that we set the record straight. You said that I owed you. Maybe I do. You said that I made you into what you are. Maybe I did. But all of that is irrelevant now, because I hurt you and you hurt me back. I took from you, so you took from me too. Remember what you did to me. Remember that on this day, I spared your life when I should have killed you, because if you ever come near me again, I shall not be this merciful. Next time, I shall destroy you, because I'll not have my word binding me twice!"

To Feilong's horror, he walked to the door and opened it, preparing to go. He wasn't going to leave him here alone… was he?

"This is good bye, Feilong," Asami said, his fingers lingering on the light switch. "Hopefully, somebody will find you soon, before it is too late. And hopefully, the wait will give you the chance to reflect on the merits of being alive over those of being dead. But if that doesn't work and you still decide that you want to end your unhappy existence, please do me a favour and leave me out of it!"

"_No!"_ Feilong shook his head in desperate supplication and denial as Asami turned off the light and shut the door behind him. The lock clicked when he turned the key and panicking, Feilong screamed, all sounds muffled by the gag while he thrashed, struggling against his bonds. The heavy footsteps walked away in the midst of his despair, the scuffling sounds of people becoming fainter and fainter, until at last, all that was left was the silence and the thick, terrifying dark.


	12. Chapter 12

Title: Dire Consequences 12/??

Fandom: Viewfinder

Pairings: Mik/Fei

Disclaimer: I do not own Viewfinder or any of its characters. This is a fanfic and I'm not making any profit from it.

Rating: R

Warnings: Uh… I have no idea… Angst? And maybe some overall blasphemy too.

Notes: I should have just started the story with this… Yay! Mik and Fei both in the same chapter at last! I feel so accomplished… ^^

Part 12

His head throbbed.

Asami had left him there to die: bound, buried and alone in a small, underground chamber, and it was not so much death that frightened him, but the darkness and the deep, dense silence. Nobody would find him, simply because nobody knew where he had gone. It would be days before anyone even dared to question his absence, let alone consider looking for him.

He had never trusted his organization enough to reveal his comings and goings. Yoh had always been there to take care of such things; to listen, to know where he was and what he was up to, to watch and to be there when something went so terribly wrong. Yoh was the only one to whom he would have confessed something like this, because he wouldn't have passed judgment on his reasons and used his weakness against him, for his own, personal gain.

But he no longer had Yoh by his side, because Yoh had turned out to be a traitor too, just like they all were, and there was no end to Feilong's bitterness.

Crying in helplessness, he struggled to loosen his bonds and the pain was agonizing as the ropes cut into his flesh. Cruelly tied, the knots wouldn't budge and without a tool of some kind, he couldn't saw them loose.

Angry and desperate, like a caged animal, he reared, taking the chair with him, only to slam it down on to the floor again with all his might. The force of the blow shook him to the core and every inch of him responded to the exertion with pain. Light-headed and weak, he nearly blacked out from the strain and had to calm down for a moment to recover his strength. He breathed hard, struggling for air through his blocked nose and around the coarse cloth stuffed in his mouth.

The night he had spent cold and wet, in the midst of extreme physical exertion that his injured body was by no means ready for, was taking its toll and he felt miserably sick. He struggled to push down his urge to vomit, afraid that he could lose his consciousness at any moment and choke on it. Moaning his frustration into the torturous gag, he bucked in the chair, shocked all of a sudden to discover that it wasn't as sturdy as he had initially thought. He wiggled a bit, testing the stability of the legs and to his surprise, they turned out to be quite loose.

The effort of repeating the manoeuvre that had shaken them almost took more strength than he had to give. He screamed from the exertion and tried again. And again. And again, until with a sharp crack, the wood splintered and the chair gave out under him.

He struck the floor awkwardly and the sheer agony of the fall made him black out. Wandering between darkness and pain, every inch of him suffered. His mouth burned and he thrashed his head, trying to dislodge the awful gag. With his hands still tied behind his back, he could not reach it and he was too weak for any kind of leverage that would allow him to get himself free. He barely managed to untangle himself from the splintered wood and then he lay on the floor freely, struggling to stay awake.

His wrists were rubbed raw from his efforts and he felt the blood trickle slowly, steadily on to the palms of his hands. It hurt, but it was a minor discomfort in the midst of other, more profound aches. The cold seeped into his limbs like a disease, crawling through flesh and muscle and sinking into his bones, to nestle at their core.

He would never be warm again.

He could no longer even guess at how long it had been since he was abandoned. He drifted in and out of consciousness, shivering, thirsting and in pain. He dreamed dark, heavy dreams and they were soaked in blood and despair.

There was a woman there, in the midst of vague, black scenery where the only shapes he could discern were yawning, glaring shadows. Her dress was long and white, but it was muddy and wet a foot above the hem and it tangled around her legs, tripping her. He was there too, strangely small and helpless, curling against her for warmth but finding none from her chilled flesh. They ran through the night, through the mud and the rain. There were bad men chasing them, evil men, and he knew that they mustn't catch them. They had dogs, he could hear them barking, and it terrified him. Somebody yelled at them to stop and she turned suddenly.

Feilong saw her clearly, then. Her face was pale and distorted with horror, but it was disturbingly familiar, as if he was looking into a mirror and seeing his own image reflected there.

She had eyes like him. She had hair like his. She had the same, elegant lines and the same, lily-white skin. She was his mother and though he had no conscious recollection of her, he knew that it was her. He screamed, but no sound came out. The terror of seeing her woke him up and he lay there, shivering in confusion.

He heard noises above him. Real sounds, not stuff left over from his nightmares. Voices and footsteps coming down the stairs beyond the locked door.

"_Asami…"_ he thought, unable to decide whether it was hope or despair that he felt. He heard the knob rattle and when the door failed to open, a moment of silence, before a frightening force slammed into it, making it splinter and crack. He flinched as the same force rammed into it again. Once. Twice, and finally, the hinges gave in.

A blare of yellow light made him cower and suddenly, there were people around him; people speaking a foreign language with urgent voices and saying things that he didn't understand.

Was that… Russian? A very distant part of his mind implied that he ought to be alarmed about that for some reason that he couldn't quite reach. Somebody knelt beside him and he felt the warmth, the presence, but couldn't really distinguish whether it was friendly or hostile. Strong arms reached under him and lifted him up, waking up a world of agony and making him moan in protest.

"Feilong," a vaguely familiar voice that he couldn't quite place called and an insistent, but gentle hand patted his cheek in an effort to rouse him. "Feilong, do you hear me?"

There was something about the man's accent, something unique about the way he pronounced his name that was heavy, warm and rolling and it ignited a spark of recollection-- a thread of unease, which forced him to crawl out of his darkness.

A big, warm hand stroked his face, pushing the wild, messy hair back and away. The touch was gentle, but it was intimate and therefore frightening. On instinct, Feilong tried to pull away from it, only to discover that he was still bound hand and foot, and this brought on a whole new wave of terror that he was too confused to process properly. He struggled, but the arms holding him were too strong and too firm. He tried to scream, but the gag choked, silencing him.

"Shh…" the same deep, hoarse voice with its rough, heavy accent soothed him. "Shh… Easy, gorgeous… nobody is going to hurt you. I've got you now and nobody will hurt you ever again!"

Arbatov. Mikhail Arbatov.

His presence made no sense.

Feilong's eyelids fluttered, struggling to open, but his eyes were sensitive and unfocused, unaccustomed to the light after hours of uninterrupted darkness.

Large fingers reached under the heavy mass of his hair, clumsily fumbling with the knot of the gag and when they failed to unite it, the Russian shouted an order in his native language, which instantly caused a commotion among his men and produced a pocket knife of some sort.

Feilong gasped in relief as the oppressive cloth fell away. Arbatov cut the rest of his bonds and he nearly wept from the pain of returning blood in his numb hands. He squirmed in an effort to escape it, but had nowhere to go, except to bury his face against his enemy's warmth, which felt sinfully good on his chilled, shivering flesh.

The earth suddenly fell away from him as he was lifted and without thinking, Feilong grabbed a fistful of the man's shirt, sliding close to him for balance and security. The strength of Mikhail's arms both thrilled and terrified and Feilong's heart beat wildly in answer to the disrupted pull of gravity.

A quick trek up a flight of stairs was all it took and Feilong was unprepared for the sudden burst of light upon him. The sun was torturously bright and the wind cold after the snug, dense darkness of the basement.

Feilong groaned. He turned into the Russian's chest for sanctuary and snuggled close, hiding there and trembling. There were several voices talking around him. They sounded urgent and concerned, prompting him to blink with effort. He struggled for clarity and squinted upward. Arbatov's face came into focus; foreign and beautiful, with its straight lines, it's full, sensual mouth and large, sky-blue eyes. The sun was behind him and it fell on the mess of his wild, curly hair, surrounding him by bright gold and a circle of white, unbearable light.

A strange, disconcerting memory welled up to the frontline of Feilong's muddled thoughts. He had been to Russia only once and on that rare occasion, he had entered this old, wooden church which, he'd been told, was a holy place. Not particularly delighted by the sacral, medieval architecture of Eastern Christianity, the impressions had worn thin almost as soon as he had walked outside, but one thing had stayed with him, resurfacing often in his thoughts for years to come.

Behind the rich, golden altar, there had been this old icon; very crude in its execution but still hauntingly beautiful in an eerie, almost unearthly way. Feilong clearly remembered musing over the hypocrisy of a religion that represented its theology in such an erotic, carnally appealing manner, while it preached self-denial and chastity, because the picture portrayed a gorgeous, athletic young man with long locks of pale, golden hair. Large, black wings apparently symbolized his heavenly origin and a gilded, gem-encrusted halo spread around his magnificent head like a crown.

It was the archangel of death, they had told him when he'd asked, the messenger of God, who guided the souls of men when their time came. At the time, Feilong had not bothered to remember the saint's name, but now it came back to him in a flash of strange premonition. Mikhail. The name had been Mikhail.

Feilong would have laughed if he'd had the strength. Corrupt, savage and cruel; such an unlikely angel to bid him farewell from the world of the living! He very much doubted that the fat, overfed priests had had him in mind when they'd preached their beliefs, but religion fed on duplicity, so it was strangely appropriate. After the life he had lived, he could hardly have expected it to be any different.

A strange noise thundered all around him, but he was too weak to care as he associated it with a roar of a stand-by helicopter. He tightened his clutch on Arbatov's shirt and pulled, demanding his attention. With considerable effort, he opened his mouth to speak and the Russian leaned down to hear his hoarse, broken words.

"Am I dead?" he barely managed, because his tongue heavy and dry. His voice was crude and cracking even to his own ears, strangely inappropriate when his head felt so light and disconnected from reality.

Arbatov's eyes widened in surprise at the question, but then he smiled and tightened his hold on him.

"No, beautiful," he said gently with a touch of what almost sounded like… relief. "You are not dead. You are with me."


	13. Chapter 13

Title: Dire Consequences 13/??

Fandom: Viewfinder

Pairings: Mik/Fei

Disclaimer: I do not own Viewfinder or any of its characters. This is a fanfic and I'm not making any profit from it.

Rating: R

Warnings: Nothing particularly life-threatening here, except for a bunch of mistakes and the fact that I am totally insane to have written out a whole damn chapter without actually saying anything. Sorry, people, hopefully, I'll get to the plot sometime in this lifetime, not to mention to the smex.

Part 13

Grigori Maksimov, a world renowned physician and diagnostician, was ready and waiting for them when they got to Macau.

Many years ago, he had been close to Mikhail's father. They'd grown up in the same house and been as close as brothers. As young men, they'd led a revolution together, killing their first man by watching each other's backs. They had stood side by side, living down the disappointment of watching their designs fall apart, because the time had not been right for changes in their country. They had stood trial together, gone to prison together and then escaped together. During the long years of exile, Maksimov had stayed by his friend's side and he had been there on the day that Arbatov had died, gunned down on an airport in Russia, after years spent hiding in various countries all over the world. He had struggled for hours to save his life, but the police had not allowed an ambulance to come to them until it was too late, because the only reason the government had let them return to their motherland in the first place, was to destroy the Arbatov family and crush its terrible influence.

Decades later, a lifetime of loyalty and affection still bound Maksimov to Arbatov's only living son and he had stayed by Mikhail's side; guiding him, aiding him and loving him, because he could glimpse the man he had devoted his life to in the face of the golden-haired orphan that had been left behind.

In consequence, the deeply rooted respect that he felt for his godfather had been the only thing that had stopped Mikhail from tearing the entire building down, when the doctor had kicked him out of the room, so that he could determine the extent of real damage done to Feilong's body, in what he'd referred to as 'comparative' peace.

Mikhail fumed, sitting on the floor in front of the door, uncertain what made him angrier; the fact that he had been thrown out, or that he'd been compelled to obey, like a spoiled child brought to heel by a stern word from his elders.

As if he'd ever been a disruption! As if he would ever do anything to jeopardize Feilong's health!

He stewed angrily, too outraged to admit that the man had a point, even though it whispered to him constantly under his bitterness. Yes, he had nagged the doctor with questions, fears and dire predictions, but he'd been so worried, and it was only natural that he would show his concern! Yes, he had poured the worst of his suppositions upon anyone who would listen before Feilong had even been looked at, but how could Mikhail be anything but pessimistic, considering the sorry state he had found his dragon in?

And yes, when recollecting the events that had led to his eviction, he had to admit that he'd refused to step away when asked to give the doctor free space to work, but that was totally justified, because how could he not be profoundly disturbed by the thought of anyone (other than himself) touching the naked body of his would-be lover, while he was forced to stand by and watch?

Feilong had not made things any easier. Stirred by the commotion and foreign voices speaking urgently all around him, he had woken up from a feverish slumber, only to find himself trapped and alone among strangers.

Among his enemies.

All attempts at reasoning with him had failed, because he was not coherent enough to comprehend that they meant him no harm. He had followed his instinct to struggle, disrupting all the physician's efforts to do his job and Maksimov had ordered a couple of guards to hold him down, because he had never been a man with much tolerance for obstinacy.

And that was when everything had gone from bad to worse.

The memory of Feilong's scream still echoed in Mikhail's ears; a terrible sound full of anguish and despair, which had shaken him to the core. He still didn't know precisely what had happened next. He wasn't thinking. Fuelled by raw instinct, the only thing he remembered was his fist painfully connecting with the jaw of a fellow man. Astonishingly quick, even in his weak, disoriented state, Feilong had managed to throw a punch that had broken the nose of the other guard holding him down. Before anyone else had had the chance to react, he'd already made it out of the door and half way down the hall.

Sheepishly, Mikhail flexed his hand, working out the tension in the joints and closing his eyes in embarrassment against his raw knuckles. It was one of his own bodyguards that he had struck and he felt deeply ashamed.

Dragging Feilong back into the room had not been easy. He was surprisingly strong for his size, but still no match for Mikhail, who even on the best of days was both larger and heavier, and in this case, also in far better shape for a fight. Drained from his ordeals and the weeks of recovery that had preceded them, Feilong could not keep his rebellion up for long and had quickly been overcome by dizziness. Helpless, shivering and forced into complacence by his own weakness, he'd not had the strength to resist when Mikhail had picked him up and carried him away.

Triumphant warmth curled in Mikhail's belly when he thought about it. He was vaguely horrified at a stirring of another kind as he remembered the feel of Feilong so close; fighting against him and failing to get away. He swelled with pride, recalling the heat of Feilong's glare; the anger and the strength of it that had refused to fade, even after everything else had given out on him.

Indeed, Feilong was a dragon and he had cursed him lavishly in Chinese when forced to admit his inevitable defeat. Mikhail smiled to himself as he remembered the sound of his voice; passionate and low so close against his ear, with his laboured breath hot and whispering against the side of his neck.

Encouraged by the memory, his erection grew and he frowned at it, very much aware that this was no time to allow such thoughts, when Feilong's condition was still uncertain and he himself so very afraid.

Maksimov had been unimpressed by such a display of theatrics. Of course, he had blamed Mikhail for the mess, who did not have the nerve to protest it, while the man he had struck in the onslaught still stood nearby, nursing his hurting jaw .

Cornered and helpless, Feilong had received Maksimov's orders to have him strapped to a bed while he did his job with extreme distress. Desperate, he had at last turned to Mikhail for help, because his was the only face that he recognized and the only one that had remained friendly among them all.

"_Please."_

Mikhail shuddered, remembering. Immersed in wretched misery, he pulled at his scattered hair and the acute pain of the act relieved some of his anguish. And just what did Maksimov expect him to do, after such a desperate supplication?

He had tried to stand up for Feilong's case, but after all the trouble he had caused, Maksimov was in no mood to hear it. A blunt refusal to hear out all his helpful suggestions had lead to anger and argument on his part, and a blank stare on Maksimov's, followed by a short order to have him removed from the scene.

Mikhail was still dumbfounded at how readily his men, _his own men_, had obeyed and thrown him out of the room! _Him_, of all people! They still lingered around, standing only a few feet away, watching over him, stern and concerned, as if he was some wayward child and not the final boss of their entire organization! He glowered at them, making his displeasure clearly known, but they returned his glares with blatant indifference and continued their silent vigil.

"_Insult to injury_," Mikhail thought and vowed that he would make them pay for it, just as soon as he got some sleep. His eyes were bloodshot and raw and his mind was falling apart from the extended lack of sleep. He shook from exhaustion, but the idea of leaving, before he heard something reassuring about Feilong's condition, was insufferable. He was desperate for a conclusion, but he feared it at the same time, knowing very well who it was that had held Feilong captive and what the man was capable of.

Asami and a whole night at his disposal. Hours upon hours to inflict irreversible harm.

Mikhail shuddered all over and shook his head to dispel the unwelcome thoughts. The relief of finding Feilong alive had wholeheartedly faded by now and left only the fear of consequences behind.

There was damage done there, far deeper than the eye could see, and Mikhail could almost sense it, alarmed by how Feilong's entire body had trembled violently against him on the plane over to Macau. He remembered how the heavy mass of his loose, dark hair had fallen over his arm while he'd held him close and grieved over the state of it, because it was tangled and spoiled with filth. He'd tried to comb it with his fingers, but had eventually given up, for it had seemed to cause more harm than it did good. He had done his best to clean the dirt from his face, horrified to see the swelling bruises show up under it on the pale, feverish skin. Feilong's lips were cracked and dry and when he'd begged for water, Mikhail had let him drink, only to have him throw it up seconds after he'd swallowed and then drift into unconsciousness.

"_Asami…" _Feilong had called him by the wrong name in the midst of his delirium and that had been the last straw.

Furious, Mikhail slammed his fist into the floor as he remembered. He winced, forcefully stifling a cry that followed. The pain was a sharp, overwhelming thing and he closed his eyes, letting his head fall back against the door, waiting for the world to reassert itself under the white glare of agony that was both mental and physical.

It took many long moments for his breathing to even out and when he looked up, he discovered that his men were staring at him with obvious shock and concern. It was only vaguely satisfying that they had not dared to approach him and with a strange sense of unreal calm, he thought that he should probably deduct that fact from the punishment they were obviously due for the disrespect they had lavished upon him earlier.

Consumed by such a mundane preoccupation, it almost came as a surprise when the lock finally clicked and the door tried to open behind him, after what had seemed like an eternity of agony.

Mikhail quickly stumbled to his feet and pulled it open. He met the disapproval in Maksimov's suffering glare.

"Manners, child!" the doctor admonished. "Manners! I'd like to think that we did a better job on you than this!"

"How is he?" Mikhail asked with anxious impatience.

"Come in and I shall tell you," Maksimov said and moved aside, letting him enter. "But it is not as bad as you think. I would say that the greatest danger to this young man right now, is suffocating in his own stubbornness."


	14. Chapter 14

Title: Dire Consequences 14/??

Fandom: Viewfinder

Pairings: Mik/Fei

Disclaimer: I do not own Viewfinder or any of its characters. This is a fanfic and I'm not making any profit from it.

Rating: R

Part 14

Feilong shifted and moaned when Mikhail came into the room.

He seemed very fragile, tied down to the narrow bed, with white straps running across his chest, waist and legs. His arms were held down with separate strips and his hands cuffed with wide, unrelenting bands, which were firm enough for him not to be able to break them, yet pliable, so as not to aggravate his raw, injured wrists.

He no longer wore gloves and his long fingers clawed the sheets in futile rebellion. His dark, clinging shirt was ripped at the sleeve and pulled up high. A needle connected to a tube and an IV drip, cruelly pierced the tender vein under his elbow and slowly dripped the amber fluid into his bloodstream.

"The worst of his problems is severe dehydration, which is why I have put him on IV," Maksimov said. "I strongly recommend that you keep him tied down for the duration of it, unless you find a way to reason with him, because he is not being cooperative, to put it mildly. Any delay in the treatment will only make his condition deteriorate."

"Dehydration?" Mikhail said, not sure whether to be dismayed, or relieved. "How bad is that?"

Maksimov looked at him, considering his answer.

"It could have been much worse," he said. "It is what is causing his delirium. An extended depravation of water, coupled with strenuous physical activity and exhaustion have brought him to this, not to mention the fever, which has served to make a bad situation even worse. Happily, it had not gone on for much longer, so with the proper intake of liquids, he should recover quickly. There should be no permanent harm done. I'd say that you found him just in time, before his captivity did any real damage."

"That… that is… good," Mikhail said, looking over at Feilong doubtfully and cringing at how pale he was.

"It also seems as if he's picked up a nasty cold, which is unsurprising," Maksimov continued. "I've drawn his blood and will have the tests within hours, but I expect it to confirm my suspicions. He looks malnourished and it is likely that he has been neither eating, nor sleeping properly for weeks, so it is not much of a stretch to assume that his immune system is down. It is hardly shocking that a night in the wet and cold, in his condition, couldn't have done him much good."

"Are…are you sure?" Mikhail dared to ask, doubtful of such a mundane diagnosis. He laid his hand on Feilong's forehead and the slender man moaned, protesting his touch and thrashing his head weakly from side to side. His bound wrists strained and his hands fisted and then relaxed. "He looks so… so sick!"

"I have put him on drugs that should treat the symptoms quickly," Maksimov said. "I'm expecting his fever to go down within the next couple of hours, but if it doesn't, we can worry about it then."

Mikhail frowned miserably, not particularly reassured by that.

"And what do we do in the meantime?"

"Nothing," Maksimov said. "We wait. A convenient side-effect of this particular treatment is fatigue and sleepiness. In his condition, I expect that it will sedate him quite effectively. Once there is no longer any danger of him snapping their necks for trying to help him, I will send in some of my nurses to clean him up and change his bandages. Afterwards, you can move him to a more comfortable room, and a better guarded one, at that. Which brings me to some good news."

"Good news? There are good news?" Mikhail said, running his hands through his hair in sheer distress.

"His wound has not reopened," Maksimov replied. "If he was shot as recently as you say, then he has recovered incredibly well. Quite amazing, actually."

He turned to Feilong with disapproval.

"This young man has a remarkable body," he said. "Far stronger than I expected it to be, from the looks of him. Very easy to heal. But he really needs to take better care of it, if he wants it to last."

Worried, Mikhail sat down on the edge of the bed. He stroked back Feilong's hair and though the young man shuddered all over from the touch, surprisingly, he did not protest it. His black eyes, which were normally so vivid and sharp, opened slowly and seemed unable to focus.

"What is wrong with him?" Mikhail asked, profoundly disturbed by the lack of their dark, piercing strength. Without it, it seemed as if a vital part of him, a part that he loved dearly, was removed.

"Don't worry, it is just the drugs kicking in," Maksimov said. "He'll be back to his pleasant, cheerful self as soon as they wear off."

"I don't like this," Mikhail said seriously. "Isn't there something else that you can give him?"

"It is for his own good," Maksimov replied. "And for the good of everyone around him. You will thank me for it in the morning."

Mikhail looked doubtful, but he bit his tongue and swallowed his protests. He knew better than to argue with the man.

"As for your _other_ concerns," Maksimov went on and Mikhail looked up sharply, "I am happy to report that I found no physical evidence to support them. There are no signs of sexual abuse on his body. In fact, I found no evidence of recent sexual activity at all, consensual or otherwise, so you can put yourself at ease, at least as far as _that_ matter is concerned. Whatever this Japanese crime lord did to him during his captivity, rape was not a part of it."

"Oh, thank God!" Mikhail exclaimed. "I was so worried."

"There are, however," Maksimov said, "signs of considerable physical trauma. He has taken quite a beating, but there seem to be no broken bones, which is good. He will be in pain for a few days and sport some nasty bruises for quite a while, but from what I've seen of him in our short acquaintance, it is likely that none of it is more than he himself initiated. There are battles that a man cannot win. He needs to learn this, because he obviously does not know when to give in and let go."

"No," Mikhail said lovingly and smiled, because like everything else on Feilong, he failed to see how it was anything but an admirable trait. "No, he does not."

The doctor sniffed in disapproval.

"You two deserve each other," he said. "And a nice match you will make, headstrong as you both are! But let me warn you; I am looking forward to my peaceful retirement, so don't expect me to come running to patch you up whenever you do one another serious bodily harm."

Mikhail would have laughed if he'd had the strength and Maksimov caught his chin in a firm grip of his large hand. He looked at him seriously and frowned in displeasure.

"Get some rest, for God's sake," he said sternly. "You look terrible."

"Yes, sir," Mikhail said meekly and Maksimov smacked him over the head.

"Don't just say it," he said. "Do it. Your little friend will be fine. There is no need to torture yourself anymore. Go to sleep. Now."

"I will, in a moment," Mikhail said. "I can't bring myself to leave him just yet."

The doctor shook his head, but he did not press the matter.

"All right," he said. "Just make sure that it happens soon, before you become delirious too. I'll go and make some arrangements. Call me if there is any change in his condition."

The door closed firmly behind him and Mikhail sighed, relaxing at last. Feilong was disturbingly quiet beside him and he did not like it.

No lasting damage. No permanent harm done. At least, not in the physical sense.

He knew better than to doubt anything that Maksimov said, but he could not help the feeling of sheer dread that twisted within him when he looked at Feilong and saw him so injured. Asami must have done _something_, to reduce to him to this.

"What did he do to you?" he whispered, not expecting that Feilong would hear it and understand, let alone give him an answer. That would take hard work, many years and a lot of patience on his part to obtain.

He smoothed back the messy hair from his white forehead and ran a large, soothing palm over it. Unhappy at the heat that he found there, he leaned down and placed a hungry, but chaste kiss on his temple, shuddering all over when his eager lips connected with the feverish skin; drinking in the warmth that he emanated.

Fever, it was the fever that had made him so hot, but Mikhail imagined that once aroused, Feilong would burn in very much the same way. It sent a thrill of dark longing through him and he could not contain it, because he had waited too long and now that he had him at last, so helpless, near and alone, the rampant desire reared its head and howled its raging need.

Even so damaged, Feilong was still unbearably beautiful. Or maybe he was beautiful because he was so damaged. Mikhail realised that he could not decide.

Feilong's skin was white velvet when he touched it; soft, smooth and luxurious. Mikhail had never seen him wear anything but the long, heavy robes that slid around every hard, perfect part of him, like a length of silk wrapped around a sharp, double-edged blade. Dressed in the tight, clinging black, with his hair a wild cocoon of shadow around his pale, flawless face, Mikhail could not look at him enough. He was so much more than what he appeared to be. Desperate strength behind unearthly beauty. Deep loneliness under a mask of power. Heat hiding beneath a layer of ice.

So much to discover. So much to love. So much to enjoy.

Feilong felt every bit lithe and exotic as he looked, but with every line of his strong, firm body clearly outlined, it had almost came as a surprise to Mikhail to find it so sculpted, toned and hard, so utterly _male_, for he'd almost expected it to be fragile, cold and fine, like both his bearing and the usual loose attire suggested.

The discovery thrilled him in ways he did not yet dare to dwell upon.

Mikhail rinsed a small towel in a basin beside the bed, squeezed the excess moisture out and gently wiped Feilong's face. This seemed to rouse him a little.

"Hey," Mikhail said and patted his cheek. "Hey, gorgeous… are you still with me?"

He got no answer for a long moment, but the extreme disappointment quickly gave way to joy as Feilong's eyelids fluttered and his narrow, hazy eyes opened slowly to look at him.

"Mikhail Arbatov," he said his name hatefully and though it was barely audible, it was filled with anger and reproach.

His entire body arched and the straps holding him down grew tight as his arms strained to break them. His hands flexed, clenching and unclenching helplessly. He glared and Mikhail responded to it with a charming, unaffected smile.

"I am flattered that you choose to recognize me," he said.

"Let… let me go!" Feilong ordered, but the command had no power behind it, sick as he was and with his voice so hoarse, it was almost soundless.

"I want to untie you, sweetheart, I really do," Mikhail said, "but are you going to behave yourself and take your medicine, if I do?"

"I am not your sweetheart," Feilong hissed at him. "How dare you disrespect me?"

"I thought that you wouldn't," Mikhail smiled good-naturedly. "So, as much as it pains me to see you like this, I am afraid that I cannot oblige."

"If you do not untie me right now, I will kill you," Feilong said firmly and Mikhail was shocked by how much viciousness he still managed to project, even when he was bound and helpless and so utterly not in control. "I will kill you slowly and painfully, just as soon as I can!"

"And as soon as you can, love," Mikhail told him, soothing back his dark, tangled hair, "I will be more than happy to let you try! But for the time-being, just relax! Let me take care of you."

Feilong's throat constricted, but he did not reply. His eyes fluttered closed and he stayed like that for many seconds, the drugs dragging him under, even as he desperately fought for his consciousness.

"Are you thirsty? Would you like some water?" Mikhail asked and Feilong blinked at him. Of course he would, but he'd be damned if he would admit to wanting, let alone needing anything from him. Mikhail smiled and shook his head. He reached under his neck and lifted his head, cradling it to keep it steady and upright, and brought a straw over to his dry, bleeding lips. Feilong drank greedily and choked, coughing violently and forcing him to pull the glass back and away.

"Shh…" Mikhail calmed him. "Slowly. Take it slowly. It isn't going anywhere. You'll only make yourself sick if you drink too quickly."

It was too much effort and by the time he had quenched his thirst, Feilong fell back in exhaustion. His eyes fluttered closed and he breathed hard, his chest rising and falling rapidly with each laboured breath. He licked the stray moisture from his cracked, shivering lips and Mikhail reached over to a drawer beside him. He rummaged through it and pulled out some lip balm. He unscrewed the tiny lid and the scent of chamomile and honey filled the air.

"Here," he said. "This will make you feel better."

He put some on his finger and holding Feilong's chin, he spread it over his lips, letting his thumb linger longer than necessary on the soft flesh of the bottom one. He pressed down upon it gently and gasped, his eyes sliding closed as a stab of violent desire assaulted him.

"Oh, God," he moaned, struggling to get his urges under control. Heat pooled in his loins and his erection grew painfully large. He wanted, he needed and his body clearly told him that it would not wait for much longer. Not when the object of his desires was so perilously close.

Feilong moaned and jerked away from his touch.

"What do you want?" he whispered, too exhausted to back it up with a threat. "The Baishe does not give in to ransom demands. You cannot hope to gain anything from holding me, except a full blown war."

Mikhail shook his head to clear it from the haze of longing, even as the threads of lust tightened, constricting around his chest and making it difficult to breathe.

"Oh, baby," he laughed. "I have already gained all that I ever wanted from this!"


	15. Chapter 15

Title: Dire Consequences 15/??

Fandom: Viewfinder

Pairings: Mik/Fei

Disclaimer: I do not own Viewfinder or any of its characters. This is a fanfic and I'm not making any profit from it.

Rating: R

Note: Special credit goes to Roz, who has done a wonderful job of being my beta for this chapter! And since I bully her all the time and don't give her nearly as much love as she deserves for inspiring me to write this fic in the first place, I am going to take this opportunity to give her one very public glomp! *smothers her*

Part 15

A fit of coughing wrenched Feilong roughly out of unconsciousness and he awoke to agony. His head throbbed, as if someone had thrust a dagger into his forehead and forced it in all the way through to his nape. His skull seemed stuffed with cotton wool and it was almost as much of a struggle to hold a coherent thought as it was to breathe, because his nose was hopelessly blocked. The violence of his cough tore his throat raw and he whimpered, curling up in misery.

Every inch of him ached and when he moved, it seemed as if there wasn't a muscle in his entire body that did not complain. A white, stabbing light pulsed behind his eyelids and when he tried to open them, a blur of colour assaulted his vision, until it hurt too much to keep trying. Groaning, he reached for a pillow and buried himself under it, but it took a few long, painful moments for the wrongness of that to register in his clogged, fuzzy mind.

A large, fat, down-stuffed pillow; when he normally slept on hard, flat surfaces.

This was not his bed.

Shocked into an effort for clarity, he struggled to sit up, but the screaming pain in his abused limbs protested the movement. He clenched his teeth and endured it, trying to stop his vision from swimming. He blinked and squinted, but it took considerable effort before he managed to focus enough to take in his surroundings.

He was not wearing his own clothes. In fact, he was wearing very little of anything. He realised that his entire torso was bare, with only the clean, square bandage neatly pasted on his abdomen, where the healing gunshot wound vaguely throbbed from his exertions. His complete attire consisted only of soft, white, drawstring pants and to his extreme discomfort, even they left little to the imagination, because the thin cotton clung to his flesh in ways that clearly outlined everything that it was supposed to cover.

Feilong was not used to being so... revealed.

He was lying on a ridiculously large, lavish bed and the more he struggled to raise himself, the deeper he seemed to sink into the outrageously soft mattress. A heavy, decorative fabric descended from the canopy between intricately carved posts that resembled something escaped from the gut of Europe's most depraved history.

He stared, unable to make sense of his surroundings. Abominably hot under the embroidered covers, he threw them back in a bout of helpless frustration and his vision blurred from the weakness that was brought on by this act. Forced to fall back on to all that decadent softness, he whimpered, fighting back a flood of distress.

Where the hell was he?

His forehead was damp with sweat and his loose, messy hair clung to his skin. He reached with a shaky hand to push it back, but then his gaze fixed on the dark, ugly bruises on his wrists that had taken on mottled shades of purple and blue; crisscrossed by the raw red of healing rope-burns. He sat up in shock and a sudden bout of recollection hit him like a cold shower.

"Asami," he breathed as bits and pieces of the misadventure came back to him. The night. The rain. The dogs.

"_This is goodbye, Feilong."_

The cold, dark basement and the thick silence that had enveloped him.

"_Hopefully, somebody will find you soon, before it is too late. And hopefully, the wait will give you the chance to reflect on the merits of being alive over those of being dead."_

Alone; he had been all alone, gagged, tied to a chair and left to die a slow, miserable death. He cried out in anguish at the memory and covered his face with his hands. A quiet sob of horror escaped him when he remembered the cold. The pain. The despair.

And then _he'd_ come for him in a flare of light, noise and chaos. The Russian.

As unclear as the memory of him was to Feilong, it was still there and now he had to face the horrifying implication that it was real. Arbatov had broken down the door of his prison and found him there, half conscious from his ordeals. He had cut his bonds and massaged his numb, frozen hands between his own large, warm palms until blood had returned to his tingling fingers. He had blown hot air on them, warming them until they had stopped hurting, and then he had carried him out of the darkness and into the sunlight.

Mortified, Feilong shuddered deeply. Gods above, did he...? Was he...?

The vague images resurfaced to the frontlines of his tortured mind; pushing back the humiliation of his terrible encounter with Asami, because what they invoked was far more urgent.

He remembered being snugly wrapped in a blanket and scooped up as if he was a child, or... or even worse; like he was some faint, helpless woman that couldn't take care of herself and needed rescuing from the man who wanted her in his bed! He felt the blood rush to his cheeks from the shame of such a blatant display of weakness in front of a rival, an enemy, but the horror did not end there as he remembered how _good_ his closeness had felt, prompting him to put his arms around his neck and _let_ him carry him away.

He had found salvation in Arbatov's arms and mortified, he remembered just how strong the man had seemed to him then; carrying him easily, as if he weighed nothing. Deeply shamed by the memory, Feilong desperately wished that the earth would just open up under him and swallow him whole, because he had revelled in his strength, sought the warmth of his body as protection from the torturous cold that had sunk into his very bones, and Arbatov had given gladly, holding him close until the shivers had ceased.

He covered his face and groaned. He was sick to his stomach from the fact that he'd been degraded, by _Asami_ of all people, and that the Russian had been there to not only _see_ it, but to also allow himself the presumption of _rescuing_ him from his own folly. A man whose advances he'd scorned for years.

The indignity would never be lived down, but there were more pressing concerns to deal with at the moment.

This was Arbatov's house. His territory. It had to be, and his blood ran cold from the knowledge.

He crawled across the bed with considerable agony and peered beyond the velvet hanging from the canopy. His heart sank as his suspicions were confirmed, because he recognized Arbatov's touch in everything. The heavy, antique sofas upholstered with rich, warm velvets ranged from dark shades of red, to gold and green. The abundance of huge, overly stuffed cushions was ridiculous and the lavish, velvet curtains lounging on the large, floor-to-ceiling windows were embroidered with golden thread. The floors were covered with thick, plush carpets that bare feet could sink into completely, and the over-proportioned room, with its glaring interior decor, overwhelmed the eye with all its flare.

Arbatov's utter lack of restraint and the obvious, almost mocking tendency towards exaggeration even extended to his choice in furniture and Feilong felt bile rise to his throat from absolute fury and discomfort at the reminder of the man's loud presence.

The kind that shamelessly claimed attention, without even attempting subtlety and style.

Every fibre of his sensitive, dignified being wanted to protest the absence of taste and constraint, though he grudgingly had to admit that whenever his disapproval fixed on something with a need to condemn it with everything he knew to be right and proper; he was forced to realise that the outrageous display of luxury stopped just before crossing the border of ridiculously overdone, into the domain of pathetically tacky.

Arbatov did it on purpose, knowing the lines and laughing in everyone's face as he pushed dangerously close to crossing these borders, until anything that would have been laughably out of taste for anyone else, seemed appropriate on him.

Feilong scowled at being forced to concede to this in a moment when he was feeling the most inclined to think badly of him, because he felt... threatened by the sheer avalanche of his power and personality.

He cursed under his breath, not fully understanding his circumstances and fearing the uncertainty. He could not grasp the full intent behind Arbatov's actions without more information, but he already doubted that it would end well. The Russians had to have had a reason for coming after him and now that they had acquired what they wanted, they were the ones with leverage.

He had to come up with a plan. He had to contact Hong Kong. But where the hell was he, anyway? He closed his eyes and strained to think it through logically.

He remembered little of the journey that had brought him here, but it had to be Macau. It could be nothing but Macau! Where else would Arbatov have taken him? He vaguely recalled the thundering noise of a helicopter. He remembered drifting in and out of consciousness; always waking up to Arbatov's concerned face and his wide, strong hand on his forehead, checking his temperature.

But the most prominent of his hazy memories were those of a terrible, white-haired man ordering a couple of goons to tie him down to a bed while he struggled and screamed. A doctor; the man had been a doctor and he had examined him against his will. He'd been held down and forced to swallow pills he did not recognise. With helpless dread, he had watched as the bastard inserted a needle connected to an IV drip into his arm, and the strange, golden liquid had inevitably trickled into his bloodstream while he'd looked on with despair, unable to do anything about it, until he'd lost consciousness at last.

Had they drugged him? Is that why he felt so disconnected and weak? Hesitantly, he glanced down and touched a neat, white pad of cotton under his elbow.

At least he was no longer tied up, but there was little doubt in his mind that he would find the doors of the room guarded and locked. He struggled to stand, but that proved to be far harder to achieve than he had anticipated and he was forced to sink down onto the thick, outrageously soft carpet, with his back to one of the bed's ornate pillars that held the canopy in place. His skin was damp with a fresh sheen of sweat and his hair fell in a long, frustrating mess down his naked spine. It was tangled and loose, but it seemed clean, as if somebody had washed the grime and the filth from it, and now it needed only to be brushed through to regain its usual splendour and shine. The very thought of it sent vibes of discomfort through his stomach, because it meant that he had been touched against his will, while unconscious. Somebody had undressed him, washed him and tended to his injuries. Strangers had seen him naked; they had laid their dirty, foreign hands upon him and he had been unable to do anything about it!

But the worst of it all was still the hair, because in his entire lifetime, he had suffered only a handful of people to touch it and when he had, it had always implied either a great intimacy, or a major violation.

A horrible, disturbing question of who had done it plagued him and his dread took on ridiculous proportions. Was it Arbatov?

He closed his eyes against even entertaining the suspicion that it had been him and shuddered. He remembered the shape of his large, strong hands and the distaste that had mingled with fear whenever he'd considered even the possibility of their touch.

"_Help me, please,"_ he prayed with fervour to the spirit of his murdered father. _"I am a bad son, daddy, I have failed you, but have mercy on me, I beg of you!" _

He looked around himself, filled with despair at the daunting task ahead of him. He had to escape from this place at once and fix the damage that this misadventure had caused... if it could even be fixed at this point.


	16. Chapter 16

Title: Dire Consequences 16/??

Fandom: Viewfinder

Pairings: Mik/Fei

Disclaimer: I do not own Viewfinder or any of its characters. This is a fanfic and I'm not making any profit from it.

Rating: R

Note: Special credit goes to Roz for being my beta! Thank you so much, my dear! You did a wonderful job!

Part 16

Feilong glared at the door.

It seemed half a world away from him. Even though it was only across the room, he felt like he did not have the energy to make it even that far, let alone beyond. His blurry eyes fixed on the ornate lock in despair. It was one of those archaic ones that opened with a big, heavy key. He would probably be able to pick it, but only if he could get his hands to stop shaking.

Unless there was another safety mechanism in place?

Filled with trepidation, he staggered up and leaned against the wall until his vision stopped swimming. He focused on breathing in and out evenly, waiting for his world to regain some clarity and then he carefully slithered over to the door, keeping close to the wall for balance, until he made it close enough to try out the shiny, brass knob. To his infinite surprise, it turned out to be unlocked, but the initial burst of relief was quickly stifled by his confusion. This was not how you held someone captive. Not unless there was far worse to come on the other side.

Careful not to make a sound, he stepped outside to discover a wide, empty hallway. He saw soft, rose-coloured carpets and walls painted in warm ochre. Decorative plaster framed oval niches that housed marble sculptures and Feilong flushed in embarrassment at the sight, because all of them portrayed men; naked men standing silent vigil with all of their most intimate attributes... exposed. He closed his eyes and shuddered, trying to overcome the image, but there was no time. Muffled, laughing voices drifted from around the corner and he froze, uncertain what to do. He focused on what they were saying and distinguished at least three different, booming baritones closing in on him. They were speaking in a crude, foreign language which he didn't understand, but recognised all the same.

Russian.

Even though it was what he had expected, his heart still sank as any doubts that he might have still entertained about his position dissipated. This was Mikhail Arbatov's doing, after all. Five strange men emerged suddenly; catching him unprepared, before he'd managed to slip back into the room unnoticed to hide. He flinched, because the sight of them provoked revulsion. They were so... so different to everything that he was used to, so obviously out of place in his country, on his territory that it never failed to incite his fury. They were intruders, and they were loud, arrogant and disrespectful. They were foreigners who did not know boundaries and their very presence threatened him on a vague, yet profound level.

Their very anatomy repulsed him. The heavy, graceless ways in which they moved grated on every fibre of his graceful, sensitive being. Their skins were so uncommonly pale, that they did not tan, but turned red instead, and their hair colours ranged in the wide spectre of browns; from light, almost blonde, to darker shades that leaned towards black. They looked raw, coarse and strange to his eyes. He was disgusted by their beards and their stocky, burly build. The only one of them who was clean-shaven had his shirt unbuttoned, exposing a large expanse of his swarthy chest, covered in disgustingly thick, curly hair that instinctively made Feilong want to turn away, but he forced himself to remain steady.

The most disturbing one of the lot was dressed in a long, black robe. He wore a thick, dark beard that grew to the middle of his chest and had hair sprouting even on the back of his hands. He was fat, round and heavy, and beads of sweat gleamed on his wide, round face, but he carried himself with an air of extreme importance and complacent self-satisfaction.

Feilong stared at them all with wide eyes, like a deer caught in the headlights and they stared back, shocked both by his presence and his attire. The one in the robe made a sign of a cross across his chest and murmured a prayer in Russian under his breath. He reached for a silver crucifix around his neck and touched it as if it were a charm to ward off evil. Feilong's mind raced. Was he a priest?

The confusion lasted only a moment, because another man caught up with the group; a gaunt, balding figure with pale, evil eyes.

Yuri Glazov.

Finally, someone that Feilong recognised! No good could come to him with this man in his proximity and he made his decision easily enough. He ran, followed by a yell of outrage from Yuri and cries of surprise from the others.

"Hey... stop! You...!" Glazov called after him in Cantonese, but most of the sentence was lost in a flood of Russian curses and obscenities. Feilong heard him shouting urgently over a com link while he raced after him, not needing to understand the language to know that he was yelling for backup.

He had to get out of there quickly, because if they caught him again, the odds were that he would not be left this unsupervised again, which would drastically decrease his chances of escaping ever again.

He saw the wide stairway open up in front of him, leading down, but was cut off as a huge, mountain of a man in a grey suit materialised in front of him. Feilong was forced to come to an abrupt halt, so that he would not crash head-on into him. His velocity made a clean stop impossible, so he fell back, hitting the floor painfully. The impact made his head spin and he nearly blacked out, cursing his weakness.

He struggled for focus in the face of his disorientation and squinted, quickly sizing up his opponent, his attire and overall formal appearance. Feilong missed little; his quick, if somewhat glazed eyes even taking notice of the abundant amounts of gel in his slick, blond hair. He was obviously the official, professional security, with a wire connecting an earpiece to a microphone, fixed to the right side of his head. Feilong let his eyes drop lower and there, he found what he was looking for. A gun strapped to his chest by leather halters.

The man was large and fit-- at least twice Feilong's size in terms of sheer body mass and he nearly snickered at how easy this was going to be, because even sick and nowhere nearly capable of the speed and flexibility he normally possessed, he was sure that he could still outmatch someone this clumsy with little effort.

"Get him!" Yuri barked the order, coming up behind.

The guard lunged to catch him and Feilong pushed himself forward, sliding between his thick, wide-set legs, until he found himself on the other side of him. The man was shocked when his hands grabbed nothing but thin air and the second it took him to process what had taken place was one second too late. Cursing, he spun around, but Feilong, whose legs still remained between his own, twisted to throw him off balance. He fell on to his back with a terrible, crunching thud that even made the walls shake. Before he'd even had the chance to realise what had befallen him, Feilong was already up, with his knee pressed to his chest and his hands on his weapon.

Yuri cursed and pulled his gun, but Feilong was faster by far. Already taking his aim, he pressed his foot firmly on to the fallen guard's throat in warning, making his intention to crush his windpipe clear, if he so much as thought of moving.

"Get back," he hissed malevolently and Yuri's mouth tightened. The twitching muscle on his face indicated the depth of his displeasure, but he saw madness in Feilong's eyes and did not dare to provoke him; not with his honoured guests so close behind.

Still holding the gun in his hand, Yuri spread his arms out in an unthreatening gesture and grinned nastily. "That was clever," he sneered. "Very clever! But just how far do you think you can get, before we bring you down?"

"Put your weapon down," Feilong ordered and the man's eyebrows rose in amusement.

"You know that that is not going to happen," he said smoothly and Feilong realised with dismay that at least three more of his companions were also armed. The only advantage he had was the sure knowledge that the first one to point their weapon at him would also be the first to die, but that was where his leverage ended. He glanced down to the foot of the stairs, only to see more of the security gather. Yuri ordered them to halt, but they did not disarm.

Feilong's mind raced, trying to make sense of this puzzle. Yuri Glazov had obviously been surprised to find him there and his visible concern for the safety of his companions told him that he would never have brought them anywhere near him, if he'd known.

"You are not getting out of here, Feilong," Yuri stated simply and Feilong knew that he was right. There were too many of them and he needed another plan. He looked at Yuri's companions and picked out his two guests easily from the other three, who were obviously his thugs. They were the ones who were alarmed and unarmed, while the others glared at him with undisguised hostility, obviously very familiar with who he was.

His eyes narrowed and he chose his victim with no effort at all. "You!" he said, pointing his weapon at the shocked priest who murmured a prayer under his breath. The loaded gun made his command clear, even though the man obviously did not understand a word he was saying. "Get over here!"

"Why, you nasty, little..." Yuri glowered and moved forward threateningly, but the bearded man raised his hand, placating him. He told him something short and clear in Russian which shut him up at once. He was too smart to aggravate a desperate man and Feilong approved; liking the priest for his obvious display of common sense. It predisposed him towards letting him live.

Yuri stayed rooted to the spot, trembling with suppressed rage. His eyes flashed with undisguised hate and promised dire things to come as the priest shuffled heavily over to Feilong's side.

"If you do this, I will kill you," he growled.

"You may try," Feilong replied. "But know this before you do; any move that you make against me will leave your people with one less holy man! Do not think that I'll hesitate to kill him first!"

"You will regret this!" Yuri glared at him. "By God, you will regret this! I shall make sure of it!"

"Move!" Feilong said, holding the gun to the priest's head and pushing him forward. He kept his back to the wall as he descended down the stairs; his eyes taking in the wide, sprawling layout of the place. Was he in a house? A mansion this big... in Macau? One of the most densely populated places on the face of the Earth?

He made it to the landing and the guards backed away, careful not to antagonise him. He caught his reflection in a mirror on the opposite wall and cringed inside.

He looked pale and exhausted, with dark rings under his eyes. His long, splendid hair now fell over his face and around his shoulders like a tattered veil, offering little protection from the numerous eyes lingering on his nudity. He was shamed by his lack of clothing and it was mortifying to know that as many as a dozen men were staring at his revealed body. Assessing.

Feilong knew what he seemed like to them; fragile, pitiful and mad. His chest rose and fell with laboured breaths and his skin was covered by the dew of fresh perspiration. There was fever in his dark eyes and if they were as capable as they appeared, they must have known that he was not operating in full capacity. They were waiting him out; until he gave in, until he collapsed and Feilong knew just how close that moment was.

He had to get out of this house. He had to get off of Arbatov's property. Once outside, he'd need a vehicle, but transport was easy to procure when one was armed. He had people in Macau. He knew where to turn to for aid. The Russians would not dare to come after him and attack on his ground, among his people. He would be able to get back to Hong Kong.

But this was still not making any sense. Everything seemed wrong. He was missing the big picture while being assaulted by too many details. The dense mist that swirled in his throbbing head was not doing much to help. He was shivering, feeling both hot and cold all at once, and he was so thirsty, that every breath he took irritated his hoarse throat as if he was inhaling hot, dry sand instead of clean air.

He struggled for clarity, but it was a losing battle. His entire body felt disconnected and weak and it was an effort even to stand. Yuri knew this, of course, and all of the did guards too, but they did not make a move, fearing for the safety of the man he was holding at gunpoint.

Slowly, Yuri approached and eyed him with disdain. "Of all of Mikhail's acts of insanity," he spat, "and there have been many of them, you have got to be the worst!"


	17. Chapter 17

Title: Dire Consequences 17/??

Fandom: Viewfinder

Pairings: Mik/Fei

Disclaimer: I do not own Viewfinder or any of its characters. This is a fanfic and I'm not making any profit from it.

Rating: R

Note: Again, all my love goes to Roz, for being my beta! She had made my story so much better than it would have been without her help!

Part 17

"Aw... shit," Mikhail groaned as he was given a brief summary of the drama in the house. He should have known better than to leave Feilong alone, but damn it, after the sedative Maksimov had recommended, he should have stayed asleep for at least a couple more hours! Why? Why did he have to wake up?

His long, leather coat dripped and his boots left muddy footprints on the spotless, lacquered floors. His wet hair was a mess of defined, rebellious curls that dripped water into his eyes, for the storm was upon them.

"Sir, you really should not go in there," the head of security warned him urgently. "The intruder is armed and dangerous and—"

"Oh, do shut up!"

He pushed the door open and to his dismay, the first disapproving face he saw was that of Yuri. Of course, he had to be at the bottom of this mess. It just wouldn't have been complete without him!

"It is about time that you got here," Glazov said coldly. "Take a long look at the trouble you've caused! I hope that you are proud."

Mikhail did not answer, because Feilong turned his dark, narrow eyes to him and any hope that he may have harboured that he could resolve this rationally went out of the window, when he saw that they were glazed over and unfocused and... fuck, that that was the Archiereus he was holding hostage, with a gun pressed to the back of his head.

He would never hear the end of this now.

"Arbatov," Feilong hissed. "Damn you, why am I here?"

He seemed barely capable of standing. He breathed hard and was swaying slightly on his feet. The drug coupled with the fever did not make a good recipe for coherence and this made the gun in his unsteady hand a definite hazard.

"Feilong, please," Mikhail tried to reason with him. "You are not thinking straight! Just let the Holy Father go, and then we can talk about it!"

Feilong threw his head back and laughed in his madness; the eerie silk of his voice making everyone but him take a step back, as if they were faced by an otherworldly being capable of causing harm just by simply wishing evil to befall upon them.

His face was flushed, his eyes were bright and his skin was damp with sweat. Mikhail knew that his fever was back and burning him up inside, but he was still beautiful and wild, regardless of the state he was in, like some enchanted, exotic thing that had strayed into a world of mortal men, where it did not belong.

"Do I look stupid to you, Arbatov?" Feilong asked looking straight at him, and in spite of the obvious threat he was emanating, Mikhail felt the feverish heat of his glare go straight to his groin. "Your Holy Father is my key out of this cage!"

"Sweetheart, you will not get out of here, unless I say so," Mikhail assured him calmly. "It is simply not possible!"

"I will kill him," Feilong growled. "If you do not let me go, he will die!"

Mikhail grinned and took a step closer, pushing forward between his men to stand right in front of him, unprotected, with only the priest between them now. He was not intimidated and he showed it plainly.

"Go on," he taunted. "Do it!"

"I am not joking," Feilong whispered.

"I never implied that you were," Mikhail replied and came even closer, until only a few feet separated them. "But you are sadly mistaken if you think that if faced with a choice, I would choose him over you! Go on, shoot! And then what will you do? You are only one and there are dozens of us! And even if you killed us all, you still cannot get out! I am not letting you go."

"Do not dare me!" Feilong said and his voice was low, dangerous and even. "I will not be afraid of you!"

"Oh, Feilong," Mikhail said tenderly. "I am the last person in the world that you need to be afraid of! Put the gun down, sweetheart. This will not get you anywhere."

Feilong roared in obvious distress and kicked his hostage away from him, pointing the gun angrily at Mikhail's head. His closeness intimidated him and he was not coherent enough to rationalise it. At least a dozen weapons clicked in response and Mikhail spun around, facing his men, not the least bit worried that he was turning his back on the one who had him at gunpoint.

"No!" he yelled at his people, spreading his arms protectively. "No! What the hell do you think you are doing! Put those down, damn you! Put them down right now!"

He turned back to Feilong who seemed stressed and confused, looking from him to them, unable to decide what he was supposed to do.

"Back," the dragon growled threateningly, waving his weapon. "Get back, all of you!"

"Feilong, sweetheart," Mikhail tried to reason gently. "If you would just—"

"Don't you fucking call me _sweetheart_!" Feilong roared and retreated towards a big, sliding door leading to the terrace outside. "Stay the fuck away from me, or I _will_ fucking shoot you!"

"All right, baby," Mikhail said patiently, putting his hands up in a non-threatening gesture, with palms facing outwards. "I'll call you whatever you want, if you would only..."

Infuriated, Feilong gave a terrible cry and fired into the ceiling. Everyone ducked as the plaster crumbled and snowed upon their heads. Taking advantage of the situation, he grabbed a hold of a chair standing close by and slammed it into the glass, which promptly shattered, adding to the confusion.

He slipped out, followed by exclamations of outrage and curses yelled in Russian.

"Feilong!" Mikhail called after him. "Feilong, wait...!"

"I hope that you are satisfied now!" Yuri said, catching a hold of his elbow and pulling him back roughly when he attempted to follow. "Why the hell were you holding him here without informing me first? And why, in the name of all logic, was such a dangerous prisoner left unguarded and unbound?"

"He is not a prisoner," Mikhail refuted, turning to glare. "In my house, he is a welcome and cherished guest. You are the one who should not have been here! Now, be kind and let me go uncle. I need to catch him before he does himself some harm."

He snatched his arm free from Yuri's grip and raced outside.

The broken glass crunched under his boots and he saw that there were still traces of Feilong's bloody footprints visible on the white stone, even though they were already dissolving and being washed away by the harsh, frigid rain.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Mikhail cursed.

***

Feilong had felt the glass cut into the soles of his bare feet when he'd made his escape, but he had ground his teeth and endured it, running against the wind. Every step was an agony and he guessed that he had sharp shards still imbedded in his flesh, but he had had no time to stop and take care of that. The important thing was to keep running. Escape was his priority.

The bitter, howling wind struck his hot, naked skin like the lashings of a whip. His head was spinning in circles from the torment, but he pushed forward, vaguely aware that he had to procure shelter soon. His wet hair stuck to his shivering body and he longed to be warm in the midst of all his discomfort.

A vague, disconcerting thought plagued him. It was cold; too cold for Macau, but he felt too sick to worry about it, because his weakness was quickly working to overcome the last of his strength and the very thought of that was enough to scare him into motion. He staggered through the lavish yard, but the gravel in the garden cut into his bare, injured feet, forcing him to stop. He groaned and fell against the thick wall made of rustic, broken stone, in an attempt to catch his breath. When his vision stopped swimming, he looked up, and to his dismay, he realised that he was gazing out at an endless landscape of turbulent grey. The lonely sea stretched all the way to the horizon and where the large, undisturbed plane of water stopped, the swollen, troubled sky took over.

Was this a house on the beach? A private beach? How was it possible that there was no sign of human life anywhere in sight? Feilong looked down and gasped when he saw the sheer cliff under him; a steep tower of dark rock, with great waves crashing against it in a rage of thunder and foam. This was wrong. So very wrong, in fact, that for the first time since he had woken up in Arbatov's bed, he felt real fear.

Macau had sand beaches.

The dense solitude surrounding the property hit him for the first time. He strained his ears for any sign of traffic and technology under the rage of the elements, but he heard nothing except for the wind and the waves. A deep sense of isolation surrounded the place like a veil.

The sound of voices snapped him out of his contemplation and he turned to see a group of armed men coming towards him on one side, and Arbatov catching up with him from the direction he had come from. He looked around anxiously, quickly realising he had two options; either to jump from the wall into the hostile waters below, which was not something that he was likely to survive, or to climb a steep flight of stairs made of roughly hewn stone, leading in the opposite direction of the advancing guards. He did not know where he would end up, but he hoped that it would turn out to be the roof of the house or at the very least, a terrace leading back inside. From there, he could hope to find another exit.

The men pursued him, but Mikhail intercepted their advance and ordered them to retreat.

"No!" he cried. "Stay back! Back, I tell you! Do not frighten him!"

Feilong turned towards him for just an instant and saw him looking up, with honest concern mirrored all over his open, handsome face.

"Feilong!" he yelled. "Feilong, come down right now! There is nowhere to go that way!"

Feilong sneered at his command and did exactly the opposite, not appreciating his tone at all.

But what did he mean there was nowhere to go? He would get the hell out of this house, even if it meant climbing down its damn walls. Mikhail cursed and ran up after him, following his bloody footsteps until they both found themselves on the landing platform. Two large helicopters stood there, stoic and immovable, beating off the violent streams of rain and waiting to be of service again. Wide-eyed, Feilong stared first at one, then at the other, standing there motionless, like two sleeping mammoths. He did not know what to make of them.

"It is over, love," Mikhail's voice drifted up from behind, dreadful in its finality. Feilong spun around like a madman, with the wind whipping his hair around his head.

"No!"

"You cannot escape," Mikhail said calmly. "Not unless you can operate one of these things, which is not something that I'd recommend in this weather, even if you can."

Feilong screamed. He couldn't fly them. He couldn't even drive a car and the bastard knew that very well! Shaking all over from pain, weakness and despair, he pointed his gun at him again.

"I will shoot!" he cried. "If you do not let me go, I swear that I will shoot!

"Sweetie, even if you do shoot me," Mikhail said gently, "there is still nowhere to go!"

No. No, no, no! It couldn't be!

"What... what are you talking about?" he sobbed. That wasn't true. It couldn't be true! What could he possibly mean by saying it?

"Take a look around you," Mikhail replied. "You do not know where you are."

Macau. This was not Macau.

Feilong ran to the closest wall and looked over it.

Water. There was nothing but water all around them. The house was not on the beach. It was on an island. Not even a proper island, but a piece of black, sturdy rock protruding from an endless sheet of a deep, dark sea.

Despair hit him like a physical blow and he sagged forward, not even reacting when Mikhail came up behind him; close enough to touch, but respecting his distance.

Too much. This was too much. "Where... where the hell are we?" he asked weakly, unable to make sense of what he was seeing.

Mikhail shrugged. "Well, I cannot supply you with the exact coordinates, but the coast of Macau is half an hour to the west by helicopter, if that is what you want to know," he replied. "A little over an hour by boat."

Feilong turned around to face him. Was the bastard serious? Did he mean to say that they were somewhere in the middle of the South China Sea?

"Give it up, gorgeous," Mikhail said gently. "It is over."

Over. It was over.

Exhausted, Feilong fell to his knees. Mikhail sank into a crouch beside him and easily pried the useless gun from his weak, trembling hand. He took off his long, leather coat and wrapped it around his thin, suffering body. The heat of him lingered on the lining in spite of the rain and Feilong shuddered.

Mikhail put his arms around him and pulled him close, shielding his head from the rain with one large, hot hand.

"You cannot hold me!" Feilong wailed in despair, even though he knew that his voice no longer had the power to back up his words. "You will not hold me here!"

Mikhail tightened his hold on him and kissed his icy face.

"Don't worry, love," he said tenderly. "When you are well enough to be capable of stealing my boat, along with one of my men to navigate it, I'll take you back to Macau myself."


	18. Chapter 18

Title: Dire Consequences 18/?

Fandom: Viewfinder

Pairings: Mik/Fei

Disclaimer: I do not own Viewfinder or any of its characters. This is a fanfic and I'm not making any profit from it.

Rating: R

Note: Special credit for this chapter goes to Roz for proofreading it and suffering through my horrible punctuation! ^_^ Thank you so much for all your help, my dear! *hugs you and gives you cake* I have, however, made some additional edits, so I take full responsibility for any foolish mistakes!

Part 18

"I leave you alone for a couple of hours and just look how much trouble you've caused!" Mikhail said, adjusting Feilong's squirming weight on his shoulder to carry him out of the rain. Feilong was exhausted by his flight and in no condition to walk, but he still fought him every step of the way.

"No!" he cried, struggling to wrench himself free. He was too lightheaded and weak to actually put a dent into Mikhail's unforgiving hold, but that didn't stop him from trying, even though his efforts drained the last of his severely depleted strength. The Russian ordered his men away and they retreated to a safe distance, emanating caution and mistrust. Yuri and his unfortunate visitors were nowhere to be seen, but Feilong was too distracted by the implications of being carried back to the room he had escaped from to be too concerned about their whereabouts.

"You bastard!" he yelled. "Put me down! Put me down, right now!"

"Now, now, beautiful," Mikhail soothed, patting his upturned bottom with the wide palm of his hand. "Behave yourself! I am only trying to help you and if you do not cooperate, I will have no choice but to have you restrained!"

Feilong screamed in fury and intensified his struggles. Help him, indeed. Some saviour he was! A captor, more likely. His jailor.

"I don't want your help," he raged, vainly trying to land a punch that would do serious damage, but his precarious position did not offer effective leverage. "I want you to let me go! I want to get out of here! I want to go home!"

He did not doubt that this time, his cell would be locked and bolted. Probably for good, if he did not think of a way to get away soon. He cursed and thrashed, becoming more and more desperate as they approached their destination.

Mikhail kicked the door open and strode inside, dumping his disgruntled burden on to the bed.

"Baby, you have a high fever and are not thinking straight," he said. "It would be very irresponsible of me to let you go anywhere before your condition improves. Besides, you cannot leave the island before the storm blows over and it would be too dangerous to try."

Feilong raised himself up on to his elbows and glared at him hatefully under the mess of his dark, dripping hair. "More so than staying here with you?" he sneered. "I think that I'll take my chances!"

"I think that you will do as you are told," Mikhail told him smoothly, "because your capability for rational thinking is obviously malfunctioning."

With a roar of fury, Feilong attempted to kick him, but he was too disoriented for an accurate shot. Mikhail caught his ankle and he lost his balance, falling on to his back with a startled gasp. Taking advantage of the situation, the Russian pulled him down over the bed and immobilised his other leg in an attempt to pull the soaked, dirty pants off his hips.

"How dare you?" Feilong cried, mortified by the presumption.

"You clothes are wet, baby," Mikhail replied. "Keeping them on cannot be good for your health!"

Feilong twisted and thrashed, trying to pull the wet, meagre piece of clothing back up, but anticipating the violence, Mikhail easily blocked his attacks. The pants came off completely, leaving the dragon cold, naked and shivering on the wide, messy bed.

"You son of a bitch!" he hissed. "Give them back or I will kill you!"

"I am sure that you do not mean that, love," Mikhail said, letting the ruined cotton plop down on to the floor in a wet and bloody heap. "When you've had a chance to think things through properly, you will realise that I've always had your best interests at heart!"

"I will see you dead for this! I swear that you will _fucking_ die—" Feilong promised with venom, but a sharp knock cut him off mid-sentence. He turned in surprise and his face blanched because the door was not fully closed. The newcomer was pushing it open, without even waiting for permission to enter! His mind raced in panic, but when his frantic thoughts tried to lace together into a coherent whole, they instantly fell apart and dissipated into chaos. Instinctively, he covered his groin with his hands in a futile attempt to preserve his modesty.

Possessing a greater presence of mind, Mikhail reached for the luxurious duvet that lay crumpled at the foot of the bed and threw it over his naked body. Consumed by his hate, Feilong was still ridiculously grateful for the consideration. Fuming in silence, he scrambled to gather the warm, concealing softness around him, humiliated by his profound relief. He shivered to the core and sank deeper into the dry cocoon of comfort, becoming aware for the first time that he was wretchedly cold. Voices speaking Russian caught his attention and he peeked out from under the hem, but he had to blink several times to clear his blurry vision before he could focus.

The intruder was rough, heavy and large, with a bright yellow Mohawk crowning the top of his bald, shiny head. He was pushing a cart loaded with serving trays and for a moment, Feilong thought that his fever was playing tricks on him. The vicious-looking thug, dressed in torn, baggy jeans and a sleeveless leather vest that showcased his muscled, tattooed arms, made for an unlikely maid. He looked awkward and clumsy as he attempted to manoeuvre into the room, causing a lot of clatter that set off another flare of pain in Feilong's head. He stewed as he waited for the stranger to leave, but his heart slowed down to a more tolerable pace. The man didn't look in his direction once, which helped to soothe the worst of his embarrassment, even though his face still burned.

Pleasant smells emanated from the silver platters and briefly distracted him from his misery.

Food.

His stomach growled at the very prospect and on top of all his other complaints, he realised that he was also ravenously hungry. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a proper meal and his weakness shamed him. Vague recollections that lingered on the edge of his consciousness resurfaced.

The Russian sitting beside his bed. The Russian feeding him with his own hand, because he had been too weak to hold a spoon himself and too delirious to care whether he lived or died. The Russian's patient voice urging him to eat.

The images were elusive and scattered because he had been feverish and half conscious at the time, but Feilong still shuddered and forced the memory out of his mind. He listened to the two men speaking and felt his frustration rise to the point of spilling over, because he could not understand a word. Not knowing what they were saying made him feel threatened and insecure, reinforcing the sense of being trapped on foreign, hostile territory. The thug handed over something that looked like a pile of clean, neatly folded clothes and casually waved his goodbye, seeming almost relieved to be dismissed. With a firm thud, Mikhail closed the door behind him and turned to look at the bed with a lopsided grin pasted all over his friendly face.

"I have given out orders that we are not to be disturbed," he said and Feilong welcomed the sound of Cantonese on his lips in spite of the thick, rolling accent, because Russian was so unappealing to his ears. "From here on, it is just you and me!"

"I am beside myself with joy," Feilong answered poisonously. Mikhail raised a brow at his tone, but did not take the bait. Instead, he dropped the clean clothes on to the sofa and to Feilong's infinite horror, he began to undress.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he asked on impulse before he could stop himself.

Mikhail glanced over his shoulder at him, his eyes wide at the question. "Umm... changing? Or would you rather that I come down with a fever too?" A look of mischief came over his face and he winked. "Though I must admit, the prospect of being sick with you certainly has its appeal!"

Caught off guard by such a blatant lack of modesty, Feilong gaped, struggling for a moment to come up with an appropriate reply to such blatant indecency. How did one even respond to something like that? With no leverage over the situation that he would have known how to use, Feilong was at a loss. What was he supposed to do with such an insufferable man when stripped of the options he had always taken for granted before? Reproach him? Send him away? As if the bastard would go if he commanded him to do so. Mikhail did what he wanted and Feilong was fairly certain that appealing to his sense of basic decency would do him no good. Oh, how he missed his own house and the sense of power it had given him!

"I don't care whether you come down with a fever or not," he glared, "but you will certainly not be doing it with me!" The very thought of being naked in the same room with him was unbearable. It made him feel very self-conscious and the sense of vulnerability sickened him.

Mikhail was wet from head-to -toe and he dripped water all over the soft, priceless carpets. The leather coat had been lost along the way and now he wore only the simple, white shirt that stuck to his flesh in the most obscene ways, revealing the outline of muscled arms and chest. Long, nimble fingers worked on the tiny, wilful buttons until the shirt finally plopped on to the floor, leaving a large expanse of Mikhail's smooth, tanned skin very exposed.

Instinctively, Feilong huddled deeper under the covers until only the top of his head peeked out, but for some unfathomable reason, he could not look away, as if transfixed by such undignified behaviour.

"You have no sense of shame," he said in a low, angry voice.

"Shame?" Mikhail mused in mock contemplation. "Why would I want a sense of shame? Sweetheart, there is no fun in being a prude! You really need to learn how to relax! So much frustration cannot be good for you!"

Feilong stared at him, his face colouring again as Arbatov's words sank in. Did that bastard just say...? Did he imply that...?

"I... I am not..." he stuttered in outrage, too shaken to even think straight, let alone find the right words to express his indignation. "How dare you-"

Mikhail raised an eyebrow in amusement, waiting for it, and Feilong felt like strangling him with his bare hands. He swallowed with difficulty, breathing hard and glaring with narrow eyes. He did not understand why he was so upset about this. It was hardly the first time he had seen someone undress, but this time, with this man, he felt threatened like he had not been for years. He cursed Mikhail and the fact that thanks to him, all their interaction had been either covertly or openly sexualised, up to the point where he could no longer look at him in any other way. He was not stupid. He knew what the Russian wanted from him.

Arbatov had hardly ever been subtle about his intentions, but in spite of his infuriating persistence, Feilong had never taken him seriously. He felt like a virgin again, like a boy instead of a man, and the roots of his discomfort finally made themselves clear. For the first time, he understood something about himself that he had never dared to face before.

In his entire adult life, he had not controlled a sexual encounter only once. Ever since that fated first time, he'd been the one to choose. He was the one to decide how much he wanted to take and more importantly, how much he wanted to give. The strings had always been in his hands and with the exception of Asami, all his partners had been either his servants, or his slaves. He'd had the power not only over their pleasure and pain, but also over their life and death, and this had given him his confidence and calm.

With Mikhail, he controlled nothing and this was the reason why the Russian had never figured in his calculations for potential lovers, in spite of being so blatantly attractive and even more appealingly, obviously attracted.

"I am not a prude!" he said vehemently, vaguely horrified that this was the best he could muster.

"If you say so, gorgeous!" Mikhail replied complacently and Feilong opened his mouth to retort at the dubious tone of his voice, but at that moment the belt on Mikhail's jeans came undone. With an obscene squirm of his hips, the tight, wet denim slipped off, to reveal the equally tight, wet underwear that, in its current state, left little to the imagination.

"Oh, for the love of...!" Feilong cried out and turned away, his face burning red. Flustered and embarrassed, he closed his eyes, but the image could not be unseen. Mikhail was large, he was fit and strong. He was also bigger than him and when Feilong asked himself if that mattered, ridiculously, the answer was yes.

Arbatov's shoulders were very broad and the long, graceful V of his scarred back dipped to a narrow waist, showing off the lean, corded muscles that could well have served as an illustration for an anatomy manual. Faced by his nudity in this confined space, Feilong could not ignore him anymore. He would have had to have been less than human to be indifferent, especially since he had made a point of disdainfully scorning his advances on principle alone. He had to admit to curiosity at least and this made him anxious.

He heard Mikhail's boots thump against the floor as they were discarded and more squishing of wet clothes as they followed the example. In spite of his better judgement, he sneaked another peek and breathed in sharply at the sight, his eyes widening in dismay. Facing away from him, Mikhail was in the process of putting on a pair of light, drawstring pants, apparently deciding to forego any underwear, which left his behind revealed in all its naked glory. As he stepped out and bent over to pull on one of the legs, Feilong saw a hint of... _Oh, fuck,_ entirely more than he had bargained for when he had decided to look.

Distressed, he ducked under the duvet and demonstratively pulled it over his head, gripping on to it with as much strength as his fingers could summon, while his face burned. His blood thumped so loudly in his ears, he almost didn't hear Mikhail laughing.

"Don't go anywhere, sweetheart!" he said, padding off into the adjoining bathroom and then yelling over the running water. "I'll be right back!"

3


	19. Chapter 19

Title: Dire Consequences 19/?

Fandom: Viewfinder

Pairings: Mik/Fei

Disclaimer: I do not own Viewfinder or any of its characters. This is a fanfic and I'm not making any profit from it.

Rating: R

Part 19

Go? Go_ where_?

As if the smug bastard hadn't already made it absolutely clear that there was no way out. And even if he could summon the willpower to get out of bed, Feilong was sure that this time, he wouldn't gather enough strength to make it further than the door. The rush of adrenaline was steadily fading and the consequences of his misadventure were making themselves known. He felt miserably sick.

"You can come out from under there now," Mikhail told him cheerfully. "I am fully dressed, I promise!"

Fuming, Feilong threw the covers back and his eyes burned as he glared, but he could not help the feeling of relief when he saw that Arbatov was indeed wearing a casual, long sleeved shirt that covered most of his skin and fell over his hips, hiding what the lack of underwear would have left shamelessly obvious under the thin cotton.

He was carrying a brass basin full of steaming water on his forearms, while precariously balancing a matching pitcher in one hand and something that looked like a first-aid kit in the other. He put them down tentatively at the foot of the bed and Feilong backed away from him across the mattress, guessing his intentions.

"Now, now, darling," Mikhail scolded as he withdrew. "We are not going to get very far with an attitude like that. Come back here. I need to look at your feet."

"Fuck you," Feilong growled. "I will rather bleed."

Mikhail sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Oh, no," he said firmly. "That is not how it is going to work. There is the easy way to do this, but there is also the hard way. I would prefer the first one, but the choice is entirely yours."

"You wouldn't dare!" Feilong glowered, his entire posture emanating threat.

"You think?" Mikhail said, unfazed. "I will not have you bleeding to death on my watch, so I would suggest that you make your decision quickly, before I am forced to make it for you!"

"Oh, I forgot," Feilong sneered. "You only have my best interests at heart!"

"Yes, as a matter of fact! But, you are too obstinate to see it and I am done trying to reason with you! There are only two things that can happen now. The first one is that you will let me take a look at your injuries and tend to them without giving me trouble, which would make us both happy!"

"And if I refuse?"

"If you refuse, then you will leave me with no choice but to restrain you and go about it while you are tied down to the bed," Mikhail said with deadpan seriousness that left no doubt in Feilong's mind that he meant it. He opened his mouth to respond angrily, but then he shut it again. The bastard could do it. More importantly, he _would _do it and Feilong was certain that he would never live down the humiliation. He glared for a long moment, weighing out his options... or more accurately, reflecting on his lack of them.

"What, you don't have your mad doctor to do it for you?" he mocked, remembering with vague horror what had already befallen him once under this roof.

"Now, now!" Mikhail protested the offence. "That's my godfather you are calling mad! Okay, I'll admit that I too have had my doubts about the state of his sanity from time to time, but he's a great man nonetheless and you should show some gratitude for the service he has done to you!"

"Gratitude?" Feilong said incredulously. "Oh, I'll show him my gratitude! With the barrel of a gun down his throat, if he so much as comes near me again!"

"Unfortunately for us both, you will not get that chance just yet," Mikhail said and his obvious worry set off a pang of unease in Feilong's chest. Did he really look that unwell? He certainly felt it. "To answer your previous question, no, I do not have him to do this for me. He is not here right now. He went to Macau this morning. Your fever was down and you were doing so well that I figured we could do without him for a while, because he had pressing matters to attend to. Matters that I had dragged him away from, for your sake! It is too late to fly him in now, before the storm settles, and I think that _this_ cannot wait that long."

Feilong had to admit that maybe, just maybe, Mikhail had a point. The cuts on the soles of his feet were really beginning to hurt, almost more than he could bear in silence, and sweat was breaking out on his forehead from the strain that this was putting on to his already weakened body. Frighteningly large, deep-red stains were spreading all over the sheets. There was too much blood for his comfort and Feilong wavered in his conviction. Maybe it wouldn't be too bad to let the Russian take a look? Maybe it wouldn't be so demeaning if he was to go along with it? His weakness was getting the better of him already and he was not sure how much more his tortured body could take.

"All right," he said grumpily, huddling deeper under the duvet and making no move to come out.

"All right?" Mikhail raised an eyebrow.

"All right, I will let you look," Feilong blurted out furiously, unable to make himself meet his eyes. "But you _will_ give me something to wear! Unlike _some_ people, I value my modesty and I will not be naked in front of you!"

"Oh, we will see about that yet," Mikhail grinned and Feilong glared.

His mind raced in turmoil as he listened to the Russian rummage through the closet. In his entire adult life, he had let no man lay a hand his bare feet. They were sensitive in ways that made any touch an act... of deep intimacy. The very thought of having Arbatov do this was profoundly stressful, but he had no choice, because he could not do it by himself and relinquishing power of his own will was less humiliating than having it stripped from him by force.

Mikhail came out, tossing a long, cotton robe at him. Feilong caught it, but he could not bring himself to put it on. He just sat there, clutching it and chewing at his bottom lip as he struggled with his doubts.

"Now what?" Mikhail asked impatiently and Feilong scowled nastily.

"Turn around!" he snapped. "I can't do it with you looking!"

Mikhail rolled his eyes, but he complied, spreading his arms out in gesture of defeat.

"Just... hurry!" he sighed in exasperation and reluctantly, Feilong had to comply. He was shivering visibly and his limbs felt so heavy, he was having difficulty making them move. Slowly, he slid over to the foot of the bed and Mikhail looked at him over his shoulder.

"I never said that you could turn," Feilong reproached him, sounding sulky and indignant, but his voice lacked its usual viciousness. He was scared and in pain, but somehow, the struggle to keep this from showing was becoming less and less important by the minute, after he had lost so many battles already.

Mikhail shook his head and knelt in front of him.

"Come," he said with surprising gentleness, which Feilong found oddly comforting. "Let me see."

Keeping the frown firmly pasted on his face, he slowly uncurled his legs, but in spite of his determination, he flinched when the Russian lovingly took his cold, bleeding foot into his large, warm hand. Instinctively, he tried to draw away, but Mikhail tightened his hold on his ankle and gently pulled him back.

"Shh..." he said reassuringly. "I'll be careful."

Feilong opened his mouth to reply angrily by habit, but he could not bring himself to do it. He stared in morbid fascination as Mikhail held him with the utmost care, almost as if he was something precious and fragile. He wanted to tell him that he was far stronger than that, that he could handle a rougher touch, but he discovered that he liked the focused, reverent attention too much to put a stop to it. He had to admit that in spite of having such big hands, Arbatov's ministrations turned out to be surprisingly tender and precise. It was because of his fingers which were noble, elegant, long and... Not entirely unattractive.

Mikhail washed the blood and dirt off with warm water and Feilong gasped as the steady trickle disturbed the cuts, sending shocks of sharp, stabbing pain throughout his entire body. He muttered a curse in Chinese and his world blacked out for a moment. He felt nauseous, struggling to contain the bile in his throat so that he would not embarrass himself again in front of the man who was doing _this_ to him.

Slowly, he opened his eyes and looked down. With a delicate pair of tweezers, Mikhail pulled out a sharp, jagged piece of glass imbedded deep in is flesh and Feilong swallowed a whimper. He watched in distress as a stream of fresh blood gushed anew and dripped heavily into the basin. It swirled in a sinuous pattern and then it dissolved, colouring the water an even darker red.

"Damn it," Mikhail said grimly. All the good humour was gone from his face and only a frown of deep concern remained. "You are going to need stitches, if this is going to heal properly."

_Why does he care?_ Feilong wondered deliriously, waiting for the initial wave of pain to fade to bearable levels. Mikhail folded up a soft, clean towel and pressed it up against his sole, putting a stop to the flowing blood.

"The bad news is that I do not have what it takes for local anaesthesia here," he said unhappily. "And we cannot fly out to the mainland for hours to come yet!"

_And your point is?_ Feilong was having a hard time catching his breath and Mikhail's words were somehow removed from his reality.

"We will have to do without."

"What?" Feilong raised himself up on to his elbows and looked down at him darkly. Beads of sweat were glistening on his forehead and he was not sure how much longer he could stay conscious.

"I have drugs that I could give you," Mikhail suggested. "You would pass out almost at once and not feel a thing!"

_Fuck._ Feilong fell back on to the bed with a groan. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._

As if he wasn't feeling sick enough already.

"No," he said hoarsely.

"No?"

"No," Feilong repeated. "No drugs. Just... just do it."

Mikhail stared at him. "Sweetheart, be serious!" he said incredulously. "You can't... I can't... I am talking about stitches here! Needles in your flesh! It will hurt too much without something to block out the pain!"

"Do you think that I haven't experienced pain before?"

"No, but..."

"Do you think that I cannot handle it?"

"Darling, I am sure that you can, but there is absolutely no need..."

"Fuck you, Arbatov!" Feilong growled. "I have had my wounds stitched together without anaesthetic before. Damn it, I have even stitched them together without anaesthetic myself, but that is beside the point! The simple fact is that I will rather die here in agony than ever let you drug me again! And trust me on this: you do not want to experience what I will do to you if you so much as try!"

3


	20. Chapter 20

Title: Dire Consequences 20/?

Fandom: Viewfinder

Pairings: Mik/Fei

Disclaimer: I do not own Viewfinder or any of its characters. This is a fanfic and I'm not making any profit from it.

Rating: R

Warnings: Angst. Maybe some dub-don.

Note: Um... I am just going to go and hide now. =_=

Part 20

Mikhail looked down guiltily. He opened his mouth to say something, but then he closed it again.

"I am sorry," he said at last and when he faced him again, he seemed contrite and sincere. "I should not have done that. I had no right and I am sorry."

Feilong stared, caught off guard. An apology was the last thing he'd expected! In his world, apologising meant admitting that he'd done wrong and that implied weakness. A liability. Feilong would have never apologised to _him_, no matter what! He would have sooner bitten his own tongue off, but somehow, Arbatov did not seem diminished for it at all, and this confused him.

"No, you shouldn't have," he scowled, suddenly feeling very uncertain about what to think of him. "And I will not let you do it again!"

Mikhail's shoulders slumped in defeat. "Feilong, are you sure?"

It was so rare to hear the Russian calling him by his real name and not some silly term of endearment. He swallowed and pressed a hand over his eyes. He was sick, uncomfortable, worried and scared, so it was easy to find an outlet in anger.

"Oh, shut up with your useless questions!" he growled impatiently. "Yes, I am sure!"

"It will hurt."

"So what? You don't think that I'll survive it? Do not make me laugh, Arbatov! I have lived through much worse things in my life than your pathetic attempts at medical aid! Don't insult me!"

Mikhail was silent for a long moment and Feilong thought about how his own breathing sounded loud in his ears. When he tried to open his eyes, his vision swam and stabbed long, thin needles of pain through the core of his brain.

"All right," Mikhail said at last and Feilong was unsure of whether he felt relief or dread. Maybe the drugs were not such a bad idea after all? But that would mean being helpless again. Unconscious. Pain was a preferable alternative to oblivion, even if it was going to be excruciating. He was by no means ready to surrender the control over his own body. Not for this.

"Turn over for me," Mikhail ordered gently.

Feilong closed his eyes and buried his face into the pillow, not wanting to look as Mikhail busied himself with the preparations. He went back to the bathroom for more clean water. Feilong heard the ripping of plastic and the chime of instruments as they were pushed around. He smelled the sharp, bitter scent of disinfectant.

"Try to be as still as you can," Mikhail said. "Tell me when you want me to stop."

Feilong sneered at the prospect, but the pain was a hungry, growing thing. Mikhail cleaned the cuts and Feilong trembled with the effort to stay still, to not make a sound, but when it began, he could not stop himself from screaming in agony, because the pain was sharp, vivid and intense. Bright colours flashed in front of his eyes even though he had them firmly closed and his fingers clawed at the sheets underneath. He bit down on to his hand to muffle his cries.

"Are you all right?" Mikhail asked and Feilong panted, welcoming the brief respite. The pain swirled and settled, but he knew that it was only temporary.

"Are you... ugh, are you even... qualified to be doing this?" he asked breathlessly.

"Oh, I am qualified," Mikhail said, stroking his back soothingly.

"Really?" Feilong said, his curiosity piqued.

"Yes," Mikhail said, sounding almost embarrassed about it. "Maksimov always thought that I couldn't afford to be without at least the basic training in the area. People get shot and stabbed around me often and he said that I couldn't always count on having paramedics at my beck and call. He is responsible for my... ah, basic surgical skills."

"Oh, joy!" Feilong muttered unhappily. "I feel so much better now."

"Shall I go on?" Mikhail asked. Feilong hesitated for only a second.

"Yes," he said. "Don't stop."

The pain was hot, searing and it threatened to rip his sanity to shreds.

"I also spent a year studying medicine at abroad, because becoming a doctor like him would have made my godfather happy," Mikhail talked, distracting him from the pain. Feilong focused on his words as if they were a lifeline. He bit into the sheets to muffle his cries, but it was excruciating. "Poor guy, he had a hard time giving up on a respectable profession for me. I transferred to political science and law soon enough. I like to keep my hands clean and medicine is just too messy."

"Good thing you did too," Feilong gasped in agony. "Somehow, I don't see you making a career in healthcare! Your bedside manner is deplorable."

"Is that so?" Mikhail smiled. "Well, I guess that it is always nice to know when one's efforts are appreciated!"

Feilong snorted, vainly trying to hide just how much pain he was in. "I guess I should count myself lucky that you are just so full of hidden talents!"

"Hush," Mikhail said gently. "Don't speak. Save your strength. We are only half way done."

Yes, silence was a good thing. It seemed as if the pain was never ending. It went on and on, tearing him up inside and evoking memories that he did not want. This was not the first time that he had muffled his cries by biting on to his own hand while another man, an enemy, held him down with his superior weight and tended to his injuries in such a crude, barbaric way.

"_Oh, gods..."_ his face was wet and he buried it in the soft mattress, to hide the treacherous tears from his tormentor. At least, the Russian wasn't enjoying the pain he was causing him like the one before him had done. At least, this one had the decency to be genuinely concerned and genuinely contrite. At least he was not laughing in the face of his anguish, while he pretended to care. He was not taking sadistic pleasure in torturing him under the false pretence of wanting to help, because Feilong was not sure that he could endure such smug arrogance twice in one lifetime.

_Asami._ The very name was a raw, open wound deep inside of him and every time he allowed himself to recall it, the pain overwhelmed him. It was powerful enough drown out everything else, even a needle piercing through his living flesh with no opiate to ease the passing. But how could he have expected anything else? The man had laughed at him when he had been down. He had mocked his weakness and he had still clung on to him, because he had mistaken his pity for affection.

Pathetic. He was pathetic and it was no wonder that he had never been loved.

"Shh..." a soft voice whispered in his ear and gentle lips kissed the top of his head. A large hand stroked his messy, tangled hair. "It is over, baby. It is done."

Feilong turned under him, not understanding. Over? How could it be over? The pain throbbed as if it had somehow infiltrated his very blood and now coursed throughout his entire body unchecked. He hurt everywhere, he hurt to his core, he had become one with his pain and now that it was given this physical outlet, he could weep and shiver and let it consume him. It was cleansing, it was purifying and it redeemed him of a lifetime of being weak and unclean, so how could it be done, when he was still in so much agony?

"Don't cry, sweetheart," Mikhail implored him softly, wiping his tears while he panted and gasped, trying to make sense of his words. The Russian kissed his cheeks, gathering up the moisture with his warm lips. "Don't you ever cry for _him_!"

Feilong looked up in surprise, shocked by the intensity he found in his eyes and how close his face was to his own.

"I don't know what you are talking about!" he whispered the desperate denial. He would never admit it. Not to himself, not to anyone else, and the fact that this man knew about it anyway was unbearable.

"Yes," Mikhail whispered back. "Yes, you do."

"No, I..." Feilong tried again, but suddenly, the distance between them closed and Mikhail kissed him. He cried out in shock, but it was muffled by a hot, demanding mouth covering his own. He sank deeper into the mattress, tensing and trying to push him away, but he was too weak and his fingers only clawed uselessly in the soft cotton of Arbatov's shirt. He whimpered as a wet, eager tongue took the opportunity and slipped between his lips; taking, exploring and stealing his breath. It was gentle, but insistent. Mikhail did not hurt him, but he did not let him stop it either and a strong hand in his hair prevented him from turning away.

"_No,"_ his mind whispered, but he could not vocalise it. He shivered from the intrusion and the white mist that clouded his thoughts swirled, threatening to make him black out. Air, he needed air, because his lungs felt like they would explode as he struggled to breathe, squirming helplessly under the suffocating weight of the man holding him down.

He closed his eyes and dark splotches materialised behind his eyelids like stains of dark ink. _"Please,"_ he wanted to beg, _"please stop!"_ Only seconds separated him from passing out, but finally, Mikhail pulled away. Panting, Feilong saw that he too was out of breath, his eyes glazed over and his lips moist from what he had just done.

"Why did you do that?" he asked, too weak and shaken to be angry.

"Because I want him out of your mind!" Mikhail's voice was serious and dark. "I want you to forget him and never think of him again."

_Never think of him again?_ Ridiculous.

Feilong wanted to say it, but he was too tired. He fell back and closed his eyes, struggling to recapture his strength. His body shivered all over from the shock. The pain was dropping to bearable levels, but it continued to throb against the backdrop of a horrible fatigue, like a dull drum-beat echoing over an empty distance.

He drifted, but jerked to consciousness only seconds later when the Russian roused him gently.

"Come here," he said, lifting him. "I need to change these sheets."

Blood. Feilong realised that he was lying in his own blood.

Mikhail carried him over to a couch by the fireplace and put him down gently. He placed a fat pillow under his head and another one lower down, raising his bandaged feet up on to it and kissing them both in silent apology. He covered him with a dry, clean blanket and Feilong was too spent to protest it. He just lay back, shivering visibly, unable to summon the strength to even be offended by the presumption.

"I am still cold," he complained weakly.

"Don't worry," Mikhail replied. "I will build a fire for you."


	21. Chapter 21

Title: Dire Consequences 21/?

Fandom: Viewfinder

Pairings: Mik/Fei

Disclaimer: I do not own Viewfinder or any of its characters. This is a fanfic and I'm not making any profit from it.

Rating: R

Part 21

The nightmares wouldn't let him rest and he nearly wept every time they forced him to wake up and face his exhaustion. In his sleep, he was running, always running, and he could find no relief. He was surrounded by blood. Each step he took was like walking over sharp, jagged blades and his old wounds hurt. He cried out in agony as pain stabbed through his abdomen and blood gushed anew from the barely healed wound on his stomach. He reached down to apply pressure and stop himself from bleeding out, but when he looked around, he discovered that he was already standing in a sea of dark, sticky red. He wanted to scream, but his voice was choked and he couldn't produce a sound. He panicked.

"Feilong!" somebody was calling him. "Feilong, wake up!"

_Wake up?_ Yes, he had to wake up. He was asleep and dreaming this. It couldn't be real.

He forced himself to open his eyes and the nightmare swirled, dissipating like smoke under a burst of fresh air. Mikhail leaned over him and stroked his tearstained face. "What is it, gorgeous?" he asked. "What's wrong?"

"It opened up again!" Feilong gasped. "It's bleeding!"

"Bleeding?" Mikhail said, grasping his wrist where he was clutching at his waist. "Let me look."

As his thoughts cleared, Feilong realised that he was lying in the bed again and that the day was growing old. The rain poured incessantly, stealing the last of the light and hiding it behind a veil of gloom. He felt hot. He was burning from the fever and he had thrown aside his blankets, but the sheets smelled fresh. He looked around and saw that they were indeed clean. The Russian must have changed them while he'd slept and the blood was only in his head.

Trembling, Feilong let Mikhail take his hand away, but he was almost afraid to face what he would find underneath. He blinked, but instead of a stain of glaring red, he saw nothing. He was wearing silk pyjamas that were too big for him, Mikhail's more than likely, and he nearly laughed. The echo of pain was still powerful, still present, but it was already fading, exposed for what it was—a phantom.

"Relax, darling," Mikhail told him and urged him to lie down. He unbuttoned the shirt and drew it apart. Feilong moaned and buried his hands in his hair. It was tangled, loose and damp with sweat. He needed a bath. Gods, how he longed for a bath and a comb! He felt dirty and disgusting, and he doubted that all the hot water in the world could ever wash him clean again!

His chest heaved and his stomach quivered as the Russian's hand hovered inches above it, emanating heat and preparing to touch. He forced himself to look when Mikhail removed the bandage strip and shuddered as his knuckles glided over the sensitive flesh around it. The ugly, freshly healed scar was intact and Feilong cringed when he saw it, but to his infinite shock, Mikhail leaned down and pressed a soft kiss on the tender, jagged ridge.

"What... what are you doing?" he asked in surprise, astounded and horrified that anyone would want to touch him when he was like this— andof all places, to touch him _there_!

"It hasn't opened," Mikhail murmured, breathing in deeply the scent of his skin and rubbing his cheek against his smooth stomach. "It looks beautiful."

Feilong blinked. "Beautiful?" he cried. "How can it be beautiful? It is horrible!"

He attempted to cover it with his hand, but Mikhail stopped him and looked straight into his wide, feverish eyes. "You could have died," he said. "It could have killed you, but it healed instead. It is a reminder that I could have lost you, but that you are still here, with me!"

"It is still ugly," Feilong frowned, too delirious to understand what he was saying.

Mikhail smiled.

"There is nothing ugly about you," he said and stroked his cheek lovingly, but then he frowned and pressed his palm against his forehead. "But, it seems like your fever is back."

Exhausted, Feilong fell back on to the bed and turned away to escape him. Mikhail's hands felt hot. They were too hot, and due to his ailment, his skin had become so sensitive, that everything hurt.

"Don't... don't do that," he implored softly, fighting to breathe. Mikhail obliged and reached over to wet a small towel in a basin of water. He squeezed the excess moisture out and returned to wipe his face. It was cool and pleasant and Feilong leaned into it, wanting more.

"Is it good?" Mikhail asked.

"Good," Feilong whispered. "Yes, it is good..."

But he was already drifting back to sleep. He toiled through the dim landscape between awareness and the dense, daunting dark. He could no longer clearly tell where reality stopped and his haunted dreams began. He was sure that he would never sleep, certain that his torments wouldn't let him rest, but when he opened his eyes again, the night was heavy upon them and he did not remember seeing the sun set. A source of bright light glowed under the bed and he blinked, focusing with considerable effort.

Of course, he was there. The Russian.

He crouched by the fireplace, piling fat logs on to a gleeful fire and instinctively shielding his face when the sparks flew, fed by the fresh fuel. The distorted shadows danced over his face and the cackling flames were reflected in his pupils, giving them an unnatural glow. The night was thick outside, but violent bolts of lightning raged, shattering the impenetrable black. Rain beat against the windows and Feilong shuddered, remembering all the things that he would rather forget. His head hurt abominably and he curled up in an attempt to find a more comfortable position, only to have the agony flare up anew.

Mikhail turned and he seemed grim, serious and concerned.

"Are you awake?" he asked softly, not wanting to disturb him if he chose to drift back into slumber, but Feilong did not like the things that waited for him when he slept. Arbatov was the lesser of two evils. He was real, which counted for something when one was being hounded by ghosts and memories. Mikhail was flesh and blood: an enemy that he could touch, and lost in his weakness, Feilong feared that this man was his last link to sanity.

"I am," he said hoarsely, but the effort irritated his raw throat and he burst into a fit of coughing. Mikhail was by his side in an instant, helping him up and supporting his weight until it passed, for he was in no condition to sit straight on his own.

"Shh..." he cooed, rubbing circles on his dragon's bent, heaving back. "Breathe, baby. Breathe."

Mikhail placed his hand over his forehead and Feilong leaned into it, closing his eyes against the unhappy, downward curve of Arbatov's mouth.

"You are burning up," Mikhail said and Feilong groaned, falling back against him. His head lolled on to his shoulder and he stayed there, just trying to breathe while the moment of respite lasted. "Here, drink this."

Something smooth, round and warm was thrust into his hand and Feilong tightened his grip around it on instinct. He squinted miserably and saw that it was a steaming mug of... something. It looked like tea. The Russian probably thought that it was tea, but it was all wrong. There was too much lemon in it, too much honey. Back home, Feilong would have killed the incompetent fool who'd have dared to serve him such piss, yet now he found that when he swallowed, it soothed his raw, aching throat. He was shaking too badly to manage on his own, but Mikhail's long fingers closed around his own and steadied the cup for him while he drank. The touch both thrilled and terrified him, and he flushed bright red, pushing the tea away.

"I can't drink anymore," he whispered.

"Are you sure?" Mikhail asked.

"I said, no!" Feilong said angrily, shamed by his frailty. He trembled visibly and managed to put down the half-full cup without spilling only with Arbatov's ready help. "I am cold," he grumbled defensively, pulling his shaking hands close to his body and crossing his arms tightly in order to hide their weakness from sight.

"Hmm..." Mikhail smoothed his hair away. "In that case, I think that I'll just have to keep you warm myself!"

He pulled him close, spooning behind him on the bed and covering him completely in the heat of his body. Every instinct that Feilong had screamed for him to react with violence, to curse him and to pull away, but Mikhail was warm, so blissfully warm against him, that he could not bring himself to give that up. He shivered, deciding to endure the not entirely unpleasant feeling of having him stroke the hair away from his ear and kiss the tender, exposed skin behind it. A shudder of sensation raced through his wrecked body and he frowned at it.

"_It's the fever,"_ he reassured himself as he drifted into unconsciousness. _"Just the fever. I'll push him away in a moment. Only one moment..."_

But he was asleep before he even managed to finish the thought.

2


	22. Chapter 22

Title: Dire Consequences 22/?

Fandom: Viewfinder

Pairings: Mik/Fei

Disclaimer: I do not own Viewfinder or any of its characters. This is a fanfic and I'm not making any profit from it.

Rating: R

Warnings: Angst.

Note: OK, people, that is all for now! ^_^

Part 22

Feilong dreamed.

It was the same nightmare that had plagued him ever since he could remember, but there was something subtly different about it this time; something unpredictable that he could not quite place.

There had always been a defined pattern to his dreams and always the same woman haunting them— the mother he had never known taking on a face of his fancy. She wore a flimsy dress of long, flowing white and had rich, splendid hair that billowed around her in the wind. As a child, he would wake up screaming when he dreamed of her and his father would show him the scarce photographs he had of his real mother in an effort to soother his terror. But this woman who had died giving birth to him was a stranger. There was nothing familiar about her sad, common face, while the one who visited him nightly looked just like _him_; with his eyes, his hair and the softer, more rounded lines of _his_ face.

He was the frightened child that she carried in her arms as she ran through the rain with raging dogs at her heels, but her flight always ended the same. Men in black would catch up to them and point a gun at her face. She would plead in terror, she would cry, but the gun would fire anyway, drowning her scream in deafening thunder and silencing her for good. Her blood would spray all over his face and it always felt so real, so sticky and warm, that it was hard to believe it was only a product of his vicious subconsciousness.

When Feilong looked up at the man towering above her dead body, he could not see his face. The harder he tried, the denser the mask of shadow seemed to become and his identity remained perpetually hidden. If it wasn't for this mystery, his nightmare would have almost seemed like memory, except for the fact that such an incident could not have happened. He knew who his mother was and how she'd died. His father had told him all about her long ago, hoping to quell the recurring nightmares.

But the fear woke him up as always.

His heart pounded violently and it took him many long moments to calm down. The fire in the hearth had died down to glowing embers, but it gave off enough light for him to make out the outlines of the room around him. It was still raining outside and he lay sprawled, with his head pillowed on Mikhail Arbatov's willing arm. The man slept quietly beside him and the dying fire touched his messy, golden curls with a glint of glowing red.

The Russian had stayed awake beside him for a long time, watching over his sleep. An old, worn-out book with many folded corners rested on his chest, still confined in the lax grip of his hand. Feilong narrowed his eyes to read the faded Cyrillic on the scruffy cover.

_Есе́нин__._

He yawned, wanting to stay awake, but the exhaustion pulled him under, prolonging his agony. He trudged painfully through the thick, grey sludge of uncertainty and he knew that he was dreaming, because he recognised the usual scenery of his fears. The night was wet and he was cold. Terribly cold. The barking of the dogs resounded in his ears, magnified beyond recognition into an unceasing chaos of noise.

"_Wake up!"_ he willed himself, but even when he managed to drag himself out of the dark, suffocating horror, he found no relief, because he could not stay awake. Moments of awareness were brief and marked by blue eyes looking down at him in worry and large, gentle hands fighting to cool down his overheated skin.

His legs were heavy like lead and unable to run with the speed he knew he should have been capable of. His aching feet tangled in the wet shrub, tripping him, until finally, the wrongness of it all registered in his fuzzy mind. His mother was no longer with him! This time, it was _him_ running, not the woman, but to his horror, he could no longer tell her apart from himself; as if they had morphed in one!

He had become her!

He was barefoot and bleeding and every step he took was sheer agony. He wore a long, flowing robe just like she had done before him and the hem dragged through the thick, black mud, slowing him down. White. The robe was the colour of death and he was the one wearing it! Shocked, he looked down at his empty, outstretched hands and discovered that they too were covered in dark, slimy red.

Blood. There was always blood sticking on his hands, when he longed to be clean.

Elusive bits of memory were teasing him, just out of his reach. He chased after the fleeting pieces of clarity, but they always faded as soon as he tried to latch on to them. The dogs were closing in on him and he knew that they would catch up with him was cold, desperately cold, yet it seemed as if he burned inside at the same time. His mouth was parched and he longed for water, but in spite of his cool, humid surroundings, there was nothing to drink, because everything around him was fetid, dank and reeking of death.

He heard someone speaking and he grasped after it with desperate fervour. With inhuman effort, he raced after the words, focused on what they were saying. To his surprise, they did not fade like everything else around him did, but became clearer. Russian. They were speaking Russian. It was Mikhail talking and the sound of his low, husky voice forced the nightmare into retreat.

Feilong opened his heavy eyelids and turned towards the sound. Arbatov was arguing with someone on the phone and the tone of his voice sounded urgent and worried. Even though he did not understand the language, Feilong knew that it was about him. Lightning flashed, briefly illuminating the room, and Feilong saw Mikhail's scruffy book discarded on the bed beside him, where the weight of his body had left an indentation in the sheets. The accompanying thunder put the worst of the storm's rage very close to them.

Mikhail held a thermometer in his hand and kept glancing at it in distress. Finally, he walked over to the window and looked out into the tempest in despair. The rain showed no sign of relenting and carried by the wind, it smashed against the glass with spectacular violence. Mikhail's voice inevitably faded in the sluggish dark, buried under the roar of his biggest fears. The dogs were barking again and the more he struggled to move, the harder it seemed to become. He cried in helpless frustration, knowing that the end was close. When they caught up with him, they would shoot him, just like they had shot his mother.

With effort he was barely capable of, he forced himself forward, but thick branches blocked his way and no matter how he clawed, letting them shred his robes and cut into his skin, they only became more dense. The dogs were near, closing in on him. He ran, tripping and falling elbow-deep into the dark, stinking water... only to discover that it was too thick and sludgy for water.

To his horror, he realised that it was it wasn't rain falling from the skies at all! It was black ink and it stained the ground all around him.

His persecutor caught up at last and he turned towards the vicious laughter, knowing what came next. He would see the barrel of a gun and when he looked up at the one holding it, he would wake up from sheer terror, before he recognised his face.

Only this time, things did not happen that way. This time, he saw a man that he knew well.

_Asami._

The lines of his handsome profile seemed very evil, and his bright eyes gleamed yellow as he turned and pressed the gun against Feilong's forehead.

"_No," _Feilong cried, shaking his head. _"You are not here. You are not real. I will _not_ be afraid of you!" _

Asami laughed, undaunted by his denial.

"_But you _are_ afraid of me," _he said and the gun clicked as he readied it.

"_No!" _Feilong cried, pulling away from him in fright. _"You will not become my nightmare! I will not allow it!"_

"_Even here, you have no control over me!"_ Asami mocked; cold, cruel and indifferent. _"I will do as I please!"_

"_Don't,"_ Feilong whispered, unable to look away.

"_Tonight," _Asami smirked,_ "I will give you closure."_

Feilong shook his head desperately. He remembered: he had followed this man into the middle of nowhere, to a property surrounded by wood and he'd been lost in the storm. The rain was real and the dogs were real. The chase had happened and he'd been caught. There had been a basement— he remembered the basement! He also remembered that Asami had left him there to die.

"_No!"_ he growled and pulled away, but his feet tangled in the hem of his robe, and he fell backward, into the dark, sticky sludge.

"_Yes!" _The barrel of the gun came into focus.

"_Wake up,"_ he told himself desperately, the terror choking him. Mikhail was there. He had come for him. He had already saved him from this man. He had saved him from himself. _"It's a dream; wake up!"_

Asami laughed at him and his finger squeezed the trigger. Feilong screamed, struggling to break away, but he couldn't, because someone was... holding him?

"_Wake up!"_

He thrashed against the hands bearing him down, lost in his fear.

"Wake up! Feilong, wake up!" the hands were strong; they were hot and they were real. "You are dreaming! Feilong, please, come back!"

The gun fired, but the resounding noise was thunder, only thunder, and its echoes were already drifting into the distance. The ghostly scene around him faded into obscurity and he woke up, bathed in sweat and shivering all over.

"_I am alive,"_ he thought in surprise. It took him many seconds to make sense of his surroundings. There was no forest around him, only a warm, comfortable room. The grasp on his forearms hurt and he blinked up at Mikhail's worried face.

"Feilong? Feilong, do you hear me?"

"Yes," he answered and Mikhail sighed in relief. His grip relaxed and Feilong lifted his trembling hands. He squinted, looking for the blood. He could not rid himself of the sense that his hands were dirty, sticky and wet, but he found nothing. He was clean and his long fingers seemed very thin and pale in the scarce light.

"It's all right, darling," Mikhail told him, gently stroking his cheek. "Forget his name! He cannot hurt you anymore!" He leaned down and kissed his lips. "He will never hurt you again, I swear!"


	23. Chapter 23

Title: Dire Consequences 23/?

Fandom: Viewfinder

Pairings: Mik/Fei

Disclaimer: I do not own Viewfinder or any of its characters. This is a fanfic and I'm not making any profit from it.

Rating: R

Note: A sort of semi-not-quite-chapter for all the Yuri lovers out there. *hides in a hole from everyone else*

Part 23

Mikhail swooned and began to fall from his perch on the wide window sill. He woke up abruptly and flailed, just barely managing to regain his balance before he made a fool of himself and crashed to the floor. Out of breath, he sat there until the rush of adrenaline passed and cursed the devious slumber that had crept up on him, catching him so off guard. Exhausted didn't even begin to do justice to how he felt. He yawned widely and squinted at his watch, surprised to see that barely minutes had passed since he'd checked it last. Lack of sleep was messing with his perception and he felt like he'd lost track of a small eternity.

The storm was dying down. He could still hear the thunder, but only in low rumbles somewhere far away. When he looked out through the window, the bright lightning seemed distant and frail, like white cobwebs in the swollen clouds hanging above the red horizon. A tired dawn was rising.

He yawned again and stretched with relish. His limbs ached with the returning blood flow and cramped as he was, he basked in the knowledge that the worst was behind him. He needed a shower. A change of clothes. And then he needed some sleep. The couch in Feilong's room would do nicely; it was close enough for him to personally watch over any change in his dragon's condition, but at a respectable distance, because Mikhail didn't think that Feilong would respond kindly to waking up in the same bed with him again, now that his fever was down and there were no more delusions to blur the lines of what was appropriate.

With pleasant memories of his unwilling charge still floating around in his mind, Mikhail looked up and jumped back with a cry. Dark, unfriendly eyes stared at him from the shadowy depths of the hall. A thin, sallow face made up of bitter lines seemed like a thing left over from vague nightmares that had crept out unbidden and invaded his waking world.

"Uncle!" he reproached, with a hand to his chest to still his racing heart. "Don't sneak up like that! You scared me to death!"

Yuri stalked out into the vague light. He looked profoundly unhappy and Mikhail braced himself for a lecture that was sure to come.

"So?" Yuri said hatefully. "How is he?"

"He is doing a lot better," Mikhail answered brightly, surprised by the question. "His fever is down and he is sleeping at last, but thank you for asking! I never realised you cared about his health!"

"I don't," Yuri smiled tightly. "I care about my own. I'd like to know if there are going to be any more attempts on my life in the foreseeable future and his wellbeing is a good indicator of what to expect. As if we don't already have enough enemies outside, you just had to go there and bring the worst one of them all into your own..."

"Do you have something important to say, Uncle?" Mikhail interrupted. "Because I am tired and I'd like to get some sleep."

"This _is_ important, you reckless, irresponsible..."

"Okay, then!" Mikhail cut him off cheerfully and pushed past him when he wouldn't get out of the way on his own. "Good night to you too! I'll see you later... much later, I hope!"

"I've put the Archiereus and his entourage on a plane out of here half an hour ago," Yuri ground out through clenched teeth. "I hope you're well pleased with the shame you've brought upon us. To threaten the head of our Church like that... I've never been so humiliated in my life. Congratulations, you can be proud. We are all damned!"

"Aw, it wasn't that bad," Mikhail yawned. "Okay, so Feilong threatened him a little bit, but nobody got hurt! Besides, I've given the Holy Father a hefty donation, which went a long way to help him recover from the trauma. When I also promised funding for the reconstruction of... of whatever that money-laundering project of his is, he more than forgave me for the inconvenience. He's even promised to pray for my eternal soul at no extra cost! Isn't that nice of him?"

"Blasphemy!" Yuri hissed. "You will burn in Hell for your lack of faith, my son! You will _burn_! Though it breaks my heart to say it, I fear that nothing can redeem you now! You are too far gone down the road of wickedness and sin!"

Mikhail rolled his eyes, profoundly unimpressed.

"I doubt that," he said casually. "Considering how much I pay for it, I think that I've bought your particular brand of redemption many times over, Uncle— not only for us, but for the next six generations of our family too!"

"I forgive your insolence," Yuri said in a low, glowering voice. "I forgive you, because I know that you do not mean it."

"I don't?"

"This is all _his_ fault!"

"I am sorry," Mikhail rubbed his eyes, hard-pressed to keep them open when his entire body ached with exhaustion, "but what does my faith— or better said, lack of it— have to do with anyone but myself?"

"He is a horrible influence!" Yuri said. "Ever since you met him, you've never been the same! I remember the time when you knew your place! Your responsibilities! You wouldn't let your libido take precedence over simple common sense and go out of your way to get yourself killed by meddling in the affairs of international crime lords! You dated _women, _for crying out loud, and now you are putting the good name of your fathers on the line for the sake of an exotic, bloodthirsty, mentally unstable, _male_ whore! Are there is no limit to your stupidity? Lengths you would not go to for this... this obsession? He brings out the worst in you! He has bewitched you and turned you forever from the path of righteousness, virtue and grace. There is no saving you now!"

Mikhail blinked at him, looking a little bewildered at his rant, as if he'd lost the thread of it somewhere around the first sentence or two.

"Forgive me, Uncle," he said, yawning again. "I've had a long night. I can't even begin to make sense of your logic right now, so if you don't mind..."

"How long do you think we are going to put up with this?" Yuri said with a definite threat in his voice. "You are losing control and if you do not take care of the problem, I am sure that sooner or later, someone will come along to take care of it for you!"

With a roar, Mikhail spun around; moving much faster than the weary slouch of his shoulders had indicated him capable of only seconds ago. Yuri did not even have time to process the threat before he was slammed with crushing force against the bare window. The glass cracked under his back and only the inner wooden framework kept him from being thrust outside. He gasped for breath as Mikhail held him off the ground by the collar of his shirt. Suddenly, there was nothing tired about him— his hard, narrow eyes were bloodshot and raw, but very alert and dangerously bright. His mouth was pressed into a thin, angry line and when he spoke, his voice was low, tense and very serious.

"Let me make myself very clear, Uncle," he ground out as Yuri hung from his grip, clawing at his hand and choking from the relentless hold. "I am a very patient, easy-going man. I can put up with a lot, especially for you, because you are family and I love you. But if you so much as lift a finger against Feilong, I will not only kill you—I will personally skin you alive and roast you over a slow fire. Do you understand me?"

"Y... yes!" Yuri croaked, his face red and eyes bulging. "Yes! I... understand!"

"I hope so!" Mikhail smiled pleasantly and released him as abruptly as he'd struck. "For your sake."

Yuri crumpled to the floor and crouched there, gasping for breath among the shards of broken glass. He glared with hatred at his nephew. Mikhail yawned once more and stretched, looking again like a man very much in the need of a bed. He dragged himself off into the shadows, heading for the general direction of his room.

"You do realise, don't you," Yuri called after him, "that this night is an indication of what the rest of your life will be like, with him by your side? Nothing but darkness, chaos and storm."

"Darkness passes and chaos clears up, my dear Uncle, so don't be too worried about my future," Mikhail called back. "I can weather the storms."

"And what will you do if there is nothing but ruin left in their wake?" Yuri asked.

Mikhail shrugged, unconcerned. "I have the resources. I will rebuild."

"It's that simple, eh?"

Mikhail laughed as he walked away. "Yes, Uncle!" he said. "Actually, it is!"


	24. Chapter 24

Title: Dire Consequences 24/?

Fandom: Viewfinder

Pairings: Mik/Fei

Disclaimer: I do not own Viewfinder or any of its characters. This is a fanfic and I'm not making any profit from it.

Rating: R

Warnings: None.

Part 24

Feilong woke up slowly, awareness coming to him in stages and each one compounding the confusion and distress. His head throbbed dully, but the unnerving sensation resembled noise more than it did pain. His mouth was parched, his throat was sore and when he tried to move, his limbs felt foreign and heavy. It took effort to raise himself up to his knees and even then he swayed, almost irresistibly tempted to give in to the weakness and sink back into the soft bedding. A stream of white sunlight poured in through the open curtains. The morning was old and already, it was melting into a clear, golden noon.

Damn it. He had fallen asleep again.

He last remembered waking at dawn. The room had been dark and empty, with no hovering Russian anywhere in sight and he had welcomed the solitude with relief. He had wanted to get up, go out and explore. Scout out the exits to this accursed place and begin plotting his escape. How long had he been imprisoned here, both by the locked doors and his own sickness? Many days, certainly. Maybe even weeks! He couldn't be sure and his brow furrowed as he tried to piece together the duration of Mikhail Arbatov's care.

His brain resisted the attempts at concentration and the pain grew as he tried to remember, but he couldn't pierce through the mist clouding his mind. With every minute, he felt the dim memories drifting further away, like a dream fading in the face of a bright morning. His body had betrayed him. He had been delirious and the lines between his nightmares and reality were blurred. Moments of clarity were short and far between, but even those were drowned under a thick blanket of overall confusion and he could trace back only a couple of days with certainty.

He would wake up briefly, knowing who he was and where he was. Basic things like eating and bathing would drain him completely and then he would sleep again. Truly sleep, because the bone-deep exhaustion that was both mental and physical demanded it of him. The Russian would be there often, sitting on the couch opposite the bed. Watching him. Sometimes, Feilong would catch the dark intensity of his eyes— the focused, serious reverence directed upon him, and he would shudder, but he'd be too disoriented to rationalise why it made him feel so vulnerable and exposed. He would go back to sleep and the inability to voice his distress would trouble his already troubled dreams.

Even thinking about it made him uncomfortable, so he made himself stop. He looked around and his eyes drifted to the laden table in the centre of the room. It was lined with covered platters of food and pitchers of fresh juice that was so cool, it dewed up the clear vessels. His breath slowed as he watched a drop of moisture slide down the slick glass and he licked his dry lips.

He was so thirsty.

The room swayed when he tried to stand. His vision blacked out for a moment and he stumbled. He leaned against the ornately carved post until the nausea passed and his barely healed feet hurt from the sudden weight. Images floated in and out of his mind, some wildly fantastic and others simply strange, but none of them were very clear. He remembered the rain. And long flights of stairs. He remembered walking over glass with bare feet. He might have thrown a chair through a window, but he couldn't be sure. He also remembered having a gun. Where could he have found a gun? And what happened to it? Did he shoot anyone? He certainly hoped that he did.

He ignored the neatly laid out cups and drank straight from the pitcher. It was moist and cold and it threatened to slip out of his shaking hands, but the sweetly scented liquid felt sinfully good against his parched tongue. Mint and lime. His favourite flavour. He swallowed greedily, not caring as the juice spilled down his throat. It pooled in the hollow between his collar bones and then dribbled down over his bare chest, but he didn't stop until he was out of breath. Closing his eyes, he leaned the cool glass against his face and struggled for air. His skin felt too hot, because in spite of imminent defeat, the fever still refused to abandon its positions.

Feeling better, Feilong put his drink down and turned to examine the rest of the table. He was ravenous and everything in front of him looked delicious. He picked up a biscuit at random and nibbled suspiciously at one corner, contemplating the situation. It was baked to perfection— crisp, just the way he liked it, and just the right colour brown as if it had come from his own kitchens! If he closed his eyes, he could almost make himself believe that he was back at home and and slowly, the wrongness of that was starting to register. He frowned, suddenly no longer very hungry.

One by one, he lifted the covers off the platters and with growing dismay, revealed only his favourite food. The dishes were still hot, which meant that someone had come in to set the table while he'd slept and that he'd remained oblivious throughout the whole ordeal. Everything was arranged in accordance to his very unique tastes, without even the tiniest detail out of place. Somebody had given out very specific orders, which seemed to have been as accurate as if he had given them out himself!

Somebody who knew him too well.

Roaring with sudden fury, he overturned the table and the subsequent crash produced the most satisfying noise. He stood in the midst of it, breathing hard and trembling with unsuppressed horror. He had always known that Arbatov was watching him. Only, he had never supposed that he was watching this closely! Even in his darkest nightmares, it had not occurred to him that someone could even _get_ this close! He'd suspected there were traitors in his ranks, selling secrets to the Russians, but gods above, did this man have his entire staff on his payroll? The business, the organisation were one thing, but this... _this_ was something else entirely! This was personal, it had nothing to do with _any_ interests that Arbatov might have had! Why did he know how Feilong took his breakfast, down to his most specific whims and demands? Why would he even _care_?

But that was not all of it. With his brain working properly for the first time in many days, Feilong remembered things that he had not been paying attention to before. During the worst moments of his fever, when he'd drifted in and out of consciousness, Arbatov would sit by his side and watch over him. He would play Feilong's favourite music and read out aloud his favourite books. He would distract him from his agony, until he drifted back into uneasy sleep. Feilong would always wake up to fresh flowers beside his bed— white roses, jasmine and blue lilacs, all of them out of season and imported only gods knew from where. Arbatov's bathroom was stocked with all of Feilong's usual body care products—not just the correct brands, but also the correct kind. Arbatov knew what scents he preferred, which ones he combined with which and at what times. He knew his skin type, his hair type— and when Feilong thought back to the shower he'd had this morning, he remembered that everything had been arranged and displayed for his convenience without a fault. For a moment, he had almost felt as if he'd stepped out of his captivity and at the time, he'd appreciated the comfort, but he'd been too sick to note the significance of it all! He had not stopped to think why a house full of coarse men with short hair and no woman anywhere in sight would have several shelves devoted to hair care products and a collection of custom made brushes, which were good enough almost to rival his own!

It was Arbatov's doing, all on his account. This man— this dangerous man was obviously familiar with even his most intimate hygiene rituals and if he knew _that_, then what else did he know? Was it even possible that there was something left that he hadn't uncovered?

The room was spinning around him and Feilong pressed his knuckles to his temples to ease the distress. He closed his eyes and cried out in anguish. He had never in his life felt so vulnerable and exposed. Careless. He had been careless. How could he have allowed this to go so far? Why hadn't he seen it sooner? Why hadn't he stopped it by now?

He had known about the Russain's strange attraction to him for years, because Arbatov had hardly made attempts to keep it a secret. His gestures of devotion were frequent and excessive, regardless of how often— or how harshly— Feilong turned them down. The man was nothing if not persistent, but Feilong had never taken him seriously. Or at least not as seriously as he obviously should have. He had tolerated his attention half with amusement and half with annoyance. It had neither flattered, nor inconvenienced him. It was a fleeting background noise at best and a brief distraction at worst, because Feilong was too smart to take it for anything more than what it really was; idle, flattery born out of the whim of a shallow, self-indulgent man, who was attracted to something out of his reach only because it was the one thing that he couldn't have. Feilong had never even entertained the notion of reciprocating the romantic interest. He'd been unimpressed, regardless of how extravagant Arbatov's attentions became, because what was the cost of expensive gifts to a man who already had more wealth than he could spend in a dozen lifetimes? It took more than money to get his attention and Feilong had never suspected Arbatov of being capable of anything more than brief fascination that would cease to exist the moment he got his hands on what he wanted.

Obviously, he had been mistaken. Obviously, he had misjudged and completely underestimated his enemy. How could he have been so wrong about him? How could he not have seen the threat when it had always been there, looming right under his nose?

But then again, Feilong had never actually felt threatened by Arbatov to consider him a serious problem. In hindsight, he saw that it was a mistake, but he had always thought of Yuri Glazov as the true mastermind behind the group's machinations in Macau. He had never imagined that Mikhail was anything more than a figure— a symbol and a remnant of a tradition from a fading time. All of Yuri's schemes were unsuccessful enough for the Triad to consider him a nuisance rather than a real danger and when it came to his men's endeavours, Arbatov had shown practical interest only in the various gambling institutions that the Russians had been trying to get their grimy paws on for years. But even this had struck Feilong as an excuse on his part to waste time in China and annoy the fuck out of him more than as a genuine attempt at a takeover.

How could he have been so careless? He'd been arrogant and complacent. He had been so blindsided by Arbatov's ridiculous pretence at infatuation, he'd completely missed his far more threatening and more immediate agenda. He'd felt so sure in his position, he had not even noticed as his enemy unearthed the foundations of his power right from under him! He had not even known about this hideout. How could he have not known? How could he have let himself disregard it so? How could he have allowed himself the latitude of not researching all of Arbatov's doings, when he was clearly up to no good, working against him in the midst of his own territory?

He'd been too distracted to notice. He'd been too preoccupied with Japan to worry about the Russians' growing influence in Macau. He'd been too busy with his connections in Tokyo, his dealings with Akihito and...

_Asami._

The realisation hit him like a blow and suddenly, everything became clear. He laughed in despair as the puzzle fell together, finally revealing the full picture.

Asami was not the one in possession of his father's deed. Mikhail Arbatov was.

It was true that the traitor Yoh had stolen it for Asami, who had intended to use it as leverage to get his little toy back. Feilong had pretended to play along, because his true goal, his only goal all along had been to lure Asami close enough for... he no longer knew what. But Akihito was taken from them both before they could make the exchange and Arbatov was the one who had done it. Arbatov, who had his rats crawling all over the Triad; the greedy, treacherous dogs who had betrayed their own for the promise of wealth and power. Arbatov was the one who had kidnapped Akihito and exchanged him for the deed. It had to have been him, because how else would he have known that Feilong was in trouble, when Asami had left him in that underground hole to die a slow and miserable death? How else would he have known where to go looking for him, when nobody knew where he had gone?

And Feilong knew why Arbatov wanted the deed. There was not much that he would not do to get it back, because it was the last thing, the only thing that he had left from his dead father to remember him buy. The deed had no real value, it was worthless to everyone except for him, but Arbatov did not need it to gain power or profit. He already had as much control over the Triad as he would ever have. Feilong harboured no illusion that important figures in his organisation now answered to the Russians. Those who were still loyal... well, they would not remain loyal to him for long. Once the full extent of everything that had taken place became known, they would turn against him and then... then, there would be war. The Triads did not tolerate weakness and he had been weak. He had jeopardised the organisation in pursuit of personal vengeance and worst of all, he had lost. He had been defeated, humiliated and mocked. It was a crime that he would pay for with his life. Already, he was a dead man walking. Arbatov had wasted his time nursing him back to health.

Did the Russian really think that he could use the deed as leverage to keep him complacent and submissive to his will? And even more to the point, did he really think that he could pacify the Triad by doing so? Did Arbatov think that by holding him, he could make the Chinese underworld bend to a foreign leadership and stop it from erupting in bloodshed once it became clear what had transpired between them?

"_It is over,"_ Mikhail's words echoed in his head like a judgement. _"There is nowhere to go."_

Feilong closed his eyes and shook his head to clear it of his voce.

No! It was _far_ from over. He was still alive. Though he was on his way down, he was not yet wholly without power. _He_ was the one who decided when things ended. There had to be a way out. There always was and he just had to find one! And if he couldn't... well, then he would make sure that when he fell, the accursed Russian went down with him.


	25. Chapter 25

Title: Dire Consequences 25/?

Fandom: Viewfinder

Pairings: Mik/Fei

Disclaimer: I do not own Viewfinder or any of its characters. This is a fanfic and I'm not making any profit from it.

Rating: R

Warnings: None.

Part 25

There was a robe laid out for him, tailored from fine, heavy silk. The luxurious patterns twined in a harmony of red, yellow and green—mythical birds, dragons and a whole spring of flowers and reeds embroidered in golden thread. Under different circumstances, Feilong might have appreciated it more, but now he donned it carelessly and stalked out of the room in a swirl of dark temper.

The door slammed behind him and as he walked, he purposefully tipped over the heavy statues in the hallways. One by one, they fell, their arms and heads breaking off and disconnecting with dull thuds that echoed like thunder throughout the mansion. He reached the atrium and looked down. Out of the corner of narrowed eyes, he saw the smart, suited security rush towards the stairway, attracted by the commotion. When they saw him, they started and then retreated warily, muttering urgently amongst each other over their microphones, no doubt sounding the alarm that he was up and about. A priceless crystal vase stood on a pedestal decorating the railing and he pushed it over, watching with malicious glee as it dropped three floors down. The people pointing at him from underneath scattered in terror as it shattered spectacularly right in front of them.

With some amusement, Feilong wondered what kind of orders they were given concerning him. Probably something along the lines of 'leave him be, but don't let him leave'. He wondered what his boundaries were and how much he could away with before they were forced to subdue him. He also wondered what method of subjugation they would use— would they shoot him? Sedate him? Simply tie him up? If he let them, that is. He smiled grimly to himself and noted one of them pulling away from the rest to make a phone call. Probably letting their precious boss know that his ungrateful guest was awake and unhappy with the arrangements.

Feilong turned away in contempt. One by one, he made his way through the rooms. He found that the doors were unlocked. Some showed signs of being lived in, while others seemed unused for a long time. He doubted that any of them held what he was after, but he still went through them, overturning the tables, emptying the drawers, pulling the sheets off the beds and leaving mayhem behind in broken, colourful piles. He made quick work of the entire floor and moved down. He wouldn't have enough time to search carefully. The guards trailed him darkly, angry, tense and dangerous, but they kept their distance, no doubt under orders to do so. Not that Feilong cared. If any of them dared to approach him, he would make sure that they regretted it for the rest of their very, very, very short lives.

He walked around the atrium, opening one door after another. The apartments looked very much the same as the ones above— lavish, extravagant and suffocated in heavy drapes and thick carpets. There were too many of them and none of them were what he was looking for. None of them were...

Ah. Finally, his hand tried a locked door. He took a step back and inspected it up and down. It was a big, carved double door with a fancy brass knob set in the middle. It looked imposing, majestic and yet utterly wasteful and vain. The entrance to Arbatov's lair, no doubt.

Feilong glared at it hatefully, going over various possibilities of breaking it down. Normally, he would try kicking it in, but even if wasn't barefoot, with freshly healing cuts on his soles, he doubted that the thick, heavy wood budge without more substantial encouragement than mere human strength. He could try picking the ancient lock, but that required stealth and patience and he was in no mood for either. He did not care what damage he'd do to the fancy craftwork... or more accurately, he did care. The more of it, the better pleased he would be.

He went back the way he'd come, retracing his steps, looking for... yes. There it was.

_In case of an emergency, break the glass._

An alarm system, with a handy little axe in a snug compartment for just such a purpose.

Feilong wrenched it free and walked back to the offending door. His nostrils widened in concession to his rage and he struck down with all the force he was capable of summoning. It still took him full five minutes of hacking at the fine wood before he was satisfied. The security underneath looked up at him in horror, whispering among themselves with their weapons drawn, debating what to do, but they did not dare come up after him. Feilong sneered at that and struck the door with his shoulder, falling against it with his full weight, until finally, with a crack and a groan, it opened before him.

He stepped forward, but the cool, peaceful darkness inside made him hesitate. It was quiet in there— welcoming and safe— and for a moment, he almost felt as if he was invading a sanctuary. A golden stream of sunlight spilled in through a crack in the drawn curtains. It climbed over an ornate desk resting under a pile of folders and files, then up a high-backed leather chair and on to the wall. There, it illuminated a large, oil painting that was graced with a place of honour in the room.

Feilong looked at it curiously. It was a portrait of two people, side by side. The man looked straight back at him with disturbingly familiar blue eyes in an unfamiliar, serious face. He was stern and proud, while the young, pretty woman on his arm looked up at him lovingly. Her eyes were chocolate brown, but even from a painting, Feilong recognised her high spirit and good humour, because he had seen it already in someone else. He recognised _her_ face, surrounded by a halo of mischievous, shiny curls that refused to stay tucked away in their excessively pinned bun and escaped gleefully in little springs of tightly spun gold.

Arbatov's parents. The blend of physical characteristics made it obvious who they were. Mikhail had inherited his father's strength and his mother's good looks. He had his authority and her pleasant disposition. It was clear even from a picture that they were a family and Feilong felt his throat tighten with bitterness and envy. He would never have that—such undoubted sense of belonging. He would never look into his father's eyes and see a part of himself reflected there. He was a burden and an intruder, and that was all he would ever be— to anyone.

Consumed by his anger, he stalked inside, discovering the internal doorways that led deeper into the apartment. The lounge. The bedroom. The bathroom. So many venues to try. So many possible hiding places. Would he find the right one before someone came in to stop him? How likely was it that Arbatov even kept something that important in a place where Feilong could get his hands on it? Odds were slim that the deed would be left out there for him find, but at least he would inflict as much damage as possible while looking.

He looked around with hatred and spied a long, metal poker lurking in a corner by the fireplace. It seemed sturdy enough, with a long, wicked tip. It would serve.

He picked it up and swung it around, wielding it like a sword against unseen foes to test his strength and coordination. Satisfied with how snugly the handle fit into the palm of his hand, he turned about, deciding what he was going to demolish first. The soft, trusting silence of the place surrounded him. It did not evoke violence. It shielded, comforted and protected, and Feilong felt a pang of something that almost resembled guilt for walking in there like an enemy. He had broken in, in spite of the fact that if he had wished it, he would have been invited and welcomed inside. The dizzying spiral of his rising madness stopped for a moment and it seemed as if something in his head cleared. He stood there for a while, just breathing, feeling lightheaded and lost.

There was a decorative, full- length, antique mirror standing on the wall opposite of him and he approached it, drawn towards his own reflection like a magnet. In the dim light, with a skewed sense of reality, he almost did not recognise himself. His face was very pale and his figure emaciated and thin. The hard, toned muscles were sharply defined under bruised skin where the robe had fallen apart for him to see it. His eyes were surrounded by grey rings— sunken and very dark. His mouth was set in a hard, bitter line and his cheeks seemed very high on his once perfectly-formed face. The scars were vivid and obvious—harsh, red gashes criss-crossed over a backdrop of ghostly white, but most startling of all were the two star-shaped, healed bullet wounds, one more visible than the other because it was far more recent. His hair fell about him like a dark veil, compounding the contrast of his unhealthy, white complexion. He seemed to have aged an eon, both mentally and physically, since the last time he'd seen himself in the looking glass. Marks of an unhappy, turbulent life that had gone on for far longer than the spirit could bear were all there and he realised that he couldn't hide them.

Against his will, his thoughts went back to Akihito—the youth, the innocence and the golden aura that he emanated. Akihito was the sun—he was daylight and life, while Feilong embodied the cold, the madness and death. Despair rose up to choke him and he screamed in his turmoil, bringing the poker up and slamming it hard into the mirror. Glass shattered around him and he didn't care. Breathing hard, he turned away, angry and unable to face what he had become.

This was the end.

He had known it for a long time, but he had strived, he had hoped for one last vengeance. One last settlement of debt with the man who had wronged him and turned him into... this. He had sacrificed everything for it, he had wanted it more than he had wanted to _breathe_ and the cursed Russian had come and robbed him even of _that_. Worst of all, he had done it when Feilong had been within the reaching distance of his goal. Coming that close to Asami, after all the years he had spent hating him, missing him, longing for him— and having him get away once more— had ripped him apart, because he had known this was the last time. He would never get the chance again.

Crying out in torment, he started on his rampage. Methodically, he made his way through the apartment, leaving nothing whole and unscathed. The destruction he left in his wake almost managed to drown out the roar of anguish within him, but it was a brief distraction. The moment he took a break, it all came rushing back. The pain. The loss. The loneliness. The humiliation. There was not enough chaos in the world that could outweigh the devastation it had left on his soul.

He slashed open the massive, leather chair and the stuffing spilled out. Tired from the exertion that his weak body was by no means ready for yet, he settled in it, lying back and crossing his legs over arm-rest while he rummaged through the files and documents on the desk. Even ruined, the chair was comfortable and Feilong sifted through the papers in relative contentment, ripping them up and discarding them when he was done. He paused for several minutes, reading through the annual financial report of one of Arbatov's extensions and his eyes lingering with interest on the hefty profit achieved, in spite of a growing international crisis. Feilong had always suspected that the Russian was ridiculously rich, but the numbers on the page hinted at an income that went beyond even his wildest speculations.

Not that he had spent much time speculating and he was wasting time doing so now.

The Russian would likely be back at any moment. How long was it since he'd started on his little search? Too long, in any case. The security had sent out word and Arbatov was probably on his way back from wherever the hell he'd gone to and left him alone and unsupervised. What a miscalculation to make! Did he really think that Feilong would sit back quietly and wait for his return? He nearly laughed and surveyed the mayhem around him with satisfaction, but as pleasing as it was to look at the shredded carpets and ruined, overturned furniture, his efforts still hadn't brought him any closer to the main object of his mission.

Where was the deed? Was it even in the house? It probably was. Arbatov wouldn't have cared if he found it, because he obviously couldn't leave the property, with or without it. But then again, not having the paper would make him that much more obedient and more likely to be compliant with whatever plans the Russian had for him. If nothing else, it made him less likely to set the whole mansion on fire and watch it burn, regardless whether or not he burned with it.

But if the deed _was_ there, where would it be? Tearing the house apart, centimetre by square centimetre, was not getting him very far. Besides, he didn't have the time to do it properly, in a way that would guarantee results. Everything he'd done so far had been an excuse to vent and it was time to get serious.

The deed had no real monetary value. In fact, Feilong was the only one that it had any value for, and by extension for his enemies too, because there was no amount on the face of the earth that he wouldn't have paid to get it back. Not much that he wouldn't have done for the chance to do so— and Arbatov knew that, which was why he had taken it. So, where would he have put it? At the end of all things, how much did his obedience really mean to the Russians?

Feilong wondered, but even as he thought about it, the realisation slowly took form. The deed would be somewhere safe, but close. Probably not where Arbatov kept the rest of his business documents, but in a place was deeply... personal.

Feilong turned in his seat and looked up. The oil portrait loomed above him, so realistic and impressive, he may as well have been standing in the room with the people it was depicting. The stern man gazed down at him with cold, judging eyes and Feilong nearly laughed. It was so obvious! How could he have left the picture untouched for so long? That should have been the first thing to come down! Eagerly, he got up and lifted the poker. He wanted to strike down hard, but he couldn't bring himself to deliver the blow.

The still faces looked down upon him in silence. As much as he loathed their son, they were still _parents_, and as such, they deserved respect. Frustrated, he grudgingly climbed on to the chair to carefully take the painting down.

The safe deposit box lurked underneath, without even the pretence at subtlety and stealth, but it was a hollow victory. Obvious as it was, the safe was still a safe and Feilong had no idea how to get to what was inside! He had neither the time, nor the proper equipment to break it open. He climbed down and leaned the canvas against the wall. He sat back on the edge of the desk, contemplating the problem.

He had no doubt that the deed was locked up in there. So close, yet so far out of his reach.

Something shifted behind him, blocking the stream of light from the hallway. Even without turning, Feilong knew who it was— that was how attuned he'd become to the man's presence over the last... however many days he'd been in his care.

"Having fun?" the question was formed with cool seriousness, but with a definite edge to the voice.

Smiling bitterly, Feilong closed his eyes and breathed out, forcing the tension gathered in his belly to dissipate.

Mikhail Arbatov was finally there.


	26. Chapter 26

Title: Dire Consequences 26/?

Fandom: Viewfinder

Pairings: Mik/Fei

Disclaimer: I do not own Viewfinder or any of its characters. This is a fanfic and I'm not making any profit from it.

Rating: R

Warnings: None.

Note: Uh... still no pr0n.

Part 26

Feilong slid from the desk and glared under the fall of his long, heavy hair. He twirled the iron rod in his hand and then brought it down to pat his palm, testing the bite of its strike.

"Fun?" he replied. "Just barely. It is bad manners, Arbatov, to leave your guests to their own devices, after confining them to your house."

Mikhail stood on the threshold; leaning languidly against the splintered door frame, his arms crossed loosely on his chest. He was dressed in a simple shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, tight-fitting jeans and knee-high, leather boots. The light behind him hit his back and while his hair glowed brightly around the edges, his face remained shrouded in shadow.

"Bad manners?" he said. "Is that your reasoning, then? Bad hosts deserve bad guests?"

Feilong raised an eyebrow in feigned shock. "Are you implying that I am a bad guest?" he asked. "I am offended."

"Are you claiming that you are not?" Mikhail said. "Then please enlighten me. What exactly do you think you are doing?"

Feilong shrugged. "Redecorating. I thought that I should express my _gratitude_ for everything you've done for me. This..." he glanced around himself with a sense of accomplishment, "seemed appropriate."

Mikhail's mouth curved upward in a grin, but the shadows on his face were deep and there was no humour there. "I see that you are very _grateful_, indeed!"

"Your taste in furniture is abysmal," Feilong sneered. "The way I see it, any intervention is an improvement."

Mikhail shifted and stepped into the room, looking around with a healthy appreciation for the extent of the damage. "Well, your efforts certainly do liven up the place! I am curious, though, what particular act of mine prompted this... outpour of good will?"

Feilong's eyes narrowed with rage. "Do you think that I am stupid, Arbatov?" he said and Mikhail raised an eyebrow at the venom in his voice.

"Why do you say that?" he asked, sounding so genuinely surprised that Feilong would almost have been fooled, if the recent experiences hadn't taught him better.

"Enough with the pretence!" he seethed. "We both know _exactly_ what you did. Let us not make a list, shall we, because we would be standing here until next year if I was to recount it all! But since you insist, I shall name the crown jewels of your misdeeds. You have spied on me for years. Bribed my staff. My security. You have lied to me and stolen from me. You conspired with my enemies to destroy me. You have gutted my organisation and turned my men against me. Thanks to your 'intervention', I am not likely to recover from this. My death sentence was signed by _your_ hand! Is that enough to satisfy your curiosity, or shall I go on?"

"Your death sentence?" Mikhail said in amusement. "Oh, sweetheart, your death is the last thing that I want added to the list of my accomplishments!"

"Don't call me sweetheart!" Feilong cried. "I am not your fucking sweetheart, you hypocritical, condescending prick! Congratulations! Your goal is complete, but I am afraid that you will find it a hollow victory. It is only a matter of time before the Triad reassembles itself under a new leadership and weeds out both you and the treacherous rats that you have on your payroll! I don't know what you are hoping to achieve by keeping me alive, but it will not work. They will _never_ submit to a foreign leadership! I just hope that you are stupid enough to pursue this and seal your fate right along with mine!"

Mikhail laughed. "The Triad?" he said. "After all this time, you think that your _territory_ is what I am after? Feilong, how long have you known me?" He walked towards him and Feilong bristled at his approach. He raised the heavy poker and adjusted his grip on it with both hands like he would over a weapon. The intent to do violence was obvious, without him even saying a word.

"I don't give a fuck what you are after!" he ground out through clenched teeth. "But I am _done_ with your games!"

Mikhail smiled lazily at the hostile gesture and did not slow his pace, totally undeterred by the unspoken threat. "Done?" he said, his voice low and etched with strange heat, as if he was speaking through a haze of deep yearning that he was just barely keeping restrained. "No, sweetheart. You are not done, because we are only beginning to play."

There was a glint in his eyes that Feilong had not seen before—a look which was stern and intent, but threaded through by a dark, tortured fire that twisted and curled... or maybe he had—but he'd been so preoccupied by other things, that he'd failed to take notice. It made him uncertain, it made him hesitate, and when Mikhail walked around the desk towards him, Feilong instinctively stepped backwards to keep the barrier between them. Mikhail commanded the space he was in with the authority of a man certain in his power and Feilong was infuriated by the submissive gesture that was forced out of him. He hissed malevolently and pointed the sharp tip of the poker to his chest, daring him to come any closer. In his hands, it was not a weapon that could be ignored and the Russian finally stopped, but not until their positions were reversed and he was the one left standing behind the desk— with the access to the safe deposit box— while Feilong remained safely on the other side.

Dismayed, Feilong felt the trap closing around him even though he couldn't see it clearly yet. It had not even occurred to him until then that Mikhail was after something other than control over the casinos in Macau, which fell under his jurisdiction. It had been a simple equation. The Triads would never allow a foreigner to wield the power this implied and Feilong had assumed that the bottom line of all of Mikhail's plans had been to use him as a puppet in the forefront of schemes. That he had taken over the Baishe in an attempt to control him and obtained his father's deed as leverage to force his cooperation in this ridiculous plot. It was a suicidal plan— one which spelled war and would see them both dead sooner or later— but it was the only thing that made sense.

Slowly, too slowly, a realisation was beginning to take form that maybe— just maybe— his enemy's goals had nothing to do with the Triad at all, but revolved solely around him.

"Give it back," he whispered hoarsely, too far gone into this contest of wills where he was outmanoeuvred and outmatched for even pretence at control. Shivering all over, it was almost an effort to keep his makeshift weapon steady in his hand.

Mikhail studied him intently, drinking in the change in attitude with almost palpable greed. "Give what back?" he asked, making him say it.

"I _know_ that you have my father's deed!" Feilong cried, enraged by his calm demeanour. "I know that you dealt with Asami for it! It is _there_! In that safe! Don't you dare deny it!"

"I won't deny it," Mikhail said. "I got the deed from Asami, which you so foolishly let fall into his hands."

Feilong forgot to breathe as the Russian manipulated the old-fashioned lock. The ancient steel door creaked open, only to reveal a far more modern security system inside—one which required both a palm print and a password. He watched eagerly as Mikhail typed it in, not making the slightest effort to conceal the numbers from him.

_1983 0201_

Feilong's eyes widened in disbelief. Was he fucking _serious_?

Apparently, he was, because a dull click signalled that it was the correct entry code and the safe opened before his eyes. His head swam in confusion, a whirlwind of emotions rising to choke him, but he did not have the time to sort through them, because, nestled in the shadow among a pile of papers, sat the familiar leather case that housed the old, precious documents. Feilong's heart lurched in his chest.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked as Mikhail took it out and carefully laid it on the desk. "The deed is worthless to you!"

"Worthless?" Mikhail replied. "I think not. It is worth a great deal to me, simply on the account of it being worth so much to you."

Ah. Finally, the masks were coming down.

"You bastard," Feilong cursed. "You unimaginable, fucking bastard! What do you want from me? Is it money? Contacts? Drugs? Weapons? Your business partners cut up into little pieces? _What?_"

Mikhail laughed. "Wrong on all counts," he said. "Baby, you disappoint me. I really expected more insight from you." He sat on the edge of the table and opened the case. Slowly, reverently he took out the neat folder inside and Feilong followed his every move anxiously, growing more and more agitated by the second. Mikhail noted how his entire body bristled as he watched him handle the papers and how his hands tightened on the poker until his knuckles turned white from the strain.

"Don't!" Feilong breathed out at last, unable to stand it any longer. The tone of his voice lingered deliciously between a plea and a threat. "Stop it! You have no right! It is not yours! Don't touch it!"

His face was very pale; he seemed feverish and deeply conflicted, and Mikhail gazed upon him through a mist of dark longing. So much time, so much effort. So many years spent on wanting, on waiting, until at last, the sum of his desires finally stood before him; desperate, feral and a step away from breaking.

"It is strange," he said, deliberately opening the folder and watching Feilong flinch as he did it, "how you insist on me respecting your property, when you showed no such consideration towards mine."

Feilong breathed in sharply and his jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

"But that is a moot point anyway," Mikhail went on, "because this..." and here he waved the folder in the air, "is no longer yours. Unless I decide otherwise."

"What do you want?" Feilong ground out as if every word pained him. "Say it already! Stop playing with me! _What the fuck do you want?_"

Mikhail smiled. "I had not realised that I'd been so subtle about my intentions towards you," he said. "But let me spell it out. Not every man that shows an interest in you does it so that he can expand his criminal influence over your territory. I could not care less about your money, your casinos, your power and connections. I do not give a fuck about the goddamned Triad, or the entire fucking Chinese underworld, for that matter."

Feilong stared at him, his eyes big and wholly uncomprehending, and Mikhail sighed in frustration.

"I want you Feilong," he said. "I want only _you_."


	27. Chapter 27

Title: Dire Consequences 27/?

Fandom: Viewfinder

Pairings: Mik/Fei

Disclaimer: I do not own Viewfinder or any of its characters. This is a fanfic and I'm not making any profit from it.

Rating: R

Warnings: Dub-con.

Note: I am happy and extremely proud to announce that this fic has been translated into Spanish, by one of my wonderful readers! Links can be found on my LJ (and links to my LJ are on my profile).

Part 27

Feilong's head throbbed like a slow drum beat and a long moment of silence went by as he waited for a continuation. When none seemed forthcoming, he blinked.

"I am sorry... _what?_"

The Russian was looking straight at him with that same uncharacteristic seriousness. His eyes were focused and intent, and the firm, unyielding gaze sent shivers down Feilong's spine.

"I cannot say it any simpler than this," Mikhail said. "And I am willing to make it very easy for you, so I shall try to keep my demands... reasonable. One night is all that I ask. One night with me, in my bed, in exchange for the deed."

Feilong stared. He opened his mouth to speak, but his throat clenched and failed to produce a sound. Had he heard that right? He couldn't have possibly heard that right. He tried again, but when he spoke, he barely recognised his voice as his own. "With you? In your bed?"

"I want you," Mikhail said. "I have wanted you for a long time. Why is that so hard for you to understand? I would think that at least this, of all things, should be no secret."

"You cannot be serious," Feilong said incredulously.

"Why not?" Mikhail raised an eyebrow at his tone. "Judging from your expression, one would think that you have never looked into a mirror! You are very beautiful, but as stunning as you are to behold, how hard is it to imagine that someone would also want to touch?"

Feilong's eyes narrowed as he tried to process those words. He _had_ looked into a mirror—very recently, in fact. Was the Russian... mocking him? He could not understand what purpose that would serve and the apparent sincerity of his voice was confusing. He closed his eyes and strained to think above the noise in his head, yet he still couldn't see... Why? It made no sense.

The men who approached him were always after something else, including the one man— the only man— who had mattered. Most of them gave up quickly, because he had teeth and he had claws. He had issues. He was distant, cold and personality disordered. Whatever their goals were, they were never worth the effort, or the ultimate damage.

But he was ruined and defeated now. What could Arbatov possibly want from him that he didn't already have? The Triad was under his control and consequently, all of Feilong's power was effectively crushed. He had nothing left to give.

"This is about sex?" he asked, feeling angry, disoriented and more than a little ridiculous. Was _that_ it? So much trouble, so much mayhem because of something so... so base? "You did all _this_ for _sex_?"

"With you."

"Excuse me?"

"I did it for sex with you," Mikhail said.

"And... what?" Feilong spat with venom. "Am I supposed to feel flattered by this exception?"

"You should," Mikhail said. "I am trying to think of anyone else I know who would be worth going to so much trouble for, but I am failing to come up with any names."

"Of course you are," Feilong seethed. "Everyone else would be too busy overexerting themselves to satisfy you to _be_ any trouble!"

"Quite possibly. And I admit— it gets boring after a while."

Feilong opened his mouth to reply, but then he shut it again. Arbatov was serious. He was absolutely serious and he really _was_ that insane! He had come to China to fuck with him, literally and figuratively! All the possibilities, all the farfetched conjectures he had strained his mind to come up with were worthless, because the bottom line had been something so simple all along!

"Let me see if I understand you correctly," he said hoarsely. "You ruined my life for a_ fuck_?"

"Small correction, sweetheart," Mikhail raised his index finger in interjection. "You ruined your life yourself, without any help from me. I tried so many times to warn you, but you would never listen. All I ever got for my efforts was scorn and contempt, but even after everything you put me through, here I am, offering you a way out. "

Feilong shook his head. He was dreaming this. He had to be. It was too surreal to be true. "After everything _I _put you through?" he repeated, unable to believe his ears.

"You think it was easy for me, watching you throw your life away over an obsession with another man?" Mikhail replied and something about his inflection changed. His eyes became a little harder and his voice a little colder— all of it so subtle, Feilong couldn't be sure if he was imagining it. "I would have given the world for even crumbs of your attention, yet you ignored me in favour of someone who had nothing to offer you, except enmity and indifference. I waited for years, only to see you run after _him_ the first chance you got, with absolutely no regard for anything, including your own wellbeing! And these are the consequences of your choice."

He was not imagining it. Gods above, he was not! Something dark and barely controlled seethed behind Mikhail's cool exterior when he spoke of Asami. It was real, deep and dangerous— almost as if he was... what? Angry? Offended? Or even...

Jealous?

Feilong stared, shivering as first pangs of panic began to set it. Instinctively, he took a step back, his face ashen as he finally began to understand his position. "You are out of your fucking mind," he growled, half in threat, half in denial, bringing his makeshift weapon up and assuming a defensive stance— ready to kill if the Russian so much as took a step towards him, repercussions be damned.

Sensing his distress, Mikhail's face softened. "Come now, baby," he said. "There is no need to be look so repulsed. It is just sex, it is fun and I am hardly a troll. I am not asking you to maim, ruin or murder anyone, which, may I remind you, is what you were willing to do mere minutes ago. This, I think, is a lot easier— and a lot more mutually... satisfying."

"Debatable," Feilong ground out through clenched teeth. Immense hatred churned in his chest, threatening to suffocate him when he forced himself to speak. Mikhail smiled, but it was not reassuring because he did not even bother to hide the dark hunger in his eyes.

"Guaranteed," he said in a voice that was low and thick with suggestion. "Because unlike the boys you choose to keep company with at night, I _know_ how to please a man."

Feilong recoiled from the words, but there was no escaping them and already, he could feel the promise they delivered crawling under his skin. His mind raced and his panic grew. There was no way out. He could almost see himself through the Russian's eyes— trapped, desperate and trembling. Long- hunted prey; cornered at last and turned feral in its fear.

Time. He needed time. He felt as if he was thrust into a game, with the rules revealed to him only when he was already one step away from losing.

"What makes you think that I would _ever_ agree to something like that?" he whispered with effort, dismayed to find that his self control was so far gone, he could hardly keep the horror out of his voice. The Russian would hear it, because how could he not? He had been waiting for so long, watching him so closely; he knew his reactions better than Feilong knew them himself!

Mikhail's eyes narrowed ever so slightly— dark and hot with anticipation— his nostrils widened and the tip of his tongue sneaked out to wet the bottom lip just before he bit on it, hard-pressed to restrain the need that consumed him. When he spoke, his voice was calm and self- assured, as if he had already won. "You have no choice _but_ to agree, my darling," he said. "In your pursuit of madness, you made sure that you burned all bridges behind you, and now, in your time of need, you have no way of escape left... except for the one that I am still holding open for you."

"Is that so?" Feilong sneered defiantly, but his mind raced in circles. _No escape. No escape. Oh, gods, he was right, there was no escape!_ Because try as he might, he could not think of one. He was trapped and helpless. He could not get out, unless Arbatov chose to let him go. Arbatov could do whatever he wanted to him and there was nothing he could do to stop him!

"After losing that brat you risked so much for, you cannot return to the Triad without the deed," Mikhail continued. "Doing so would be nothing short of admitting defeat and losing face in front of your men. Without their respect, you will die, but you _must_ go back, because you are too dangerous for them to leave you alive if you don't. And even assuming that you were somehow to evade your own people— which is unlikely— you would not survive without protection, because you have powerful enemies. And I am offering you protection... but of course, I want something in return."

Feilong shook his head in desperate denial. The slow, throbbing pain had evolved into searing agony and he could not think clearly. It was true. He had destroyed himself and now faced certain death. One night. One night of utter humiliation in exchange for the deed and a chance at survival. The Russian held the precious papers towards him invitingly and Feilong was tempted, gods above, he was so tempted and shamed to the core by his cowardice and weakness. All he had to do was put down his weapon, walk forward and take it!

But he was nowhere nearly far gone into his fever to harbour the illusion that the deed would be enough to save him from the depths to which he had fallen. His reputation was already in tatters, there were traitors in his ranks and _nothing_ that he had at his disposal was enough for salvation. It was impossible that this calamity would simply end here, with _just one night_.

Arbatov was a liar.

What he was offering was Feilong's worst nightmare and he had become a cold-blooded killer in order to avoid it— a lifetime of sexual servitude to men he despised. It was a fate worse than death and faced with a choice between one or the other, Feilong knew what he would choose. If he submitted to Arbatov now, he would never again be free. Protection! What a joke! He would have to leave China forever and go... go where? To Russia? Because yes, the only place where his enemies would not be able to track him would be territory under Arbatov's thumb!

Everything was finally beginning to make sense. This was why the bastard had involved himself into his business and infiltrated his organisation down to its core. It was never about the money, or the casinos! It was about making sure that once Feilong's position was damaged enough, he would have no other option but to turn to _him_ for help! Indeed, it was a perfectly executed trap. Too late, Feilong realised that he had been woefully blind and that all along, he'd been supplying his enemy with the material he needed to weave him an elaborate cage.

Defeated, he closed his eyes, but when he opened them again, they were hateful and hard.

"No," he said and even though his voice was hoarse, it was firm and defiant and it grew stronger and clearer as he continued to speak. "Fuck you and your _protection!_ Do you think that I am afraid of dying? I have been walking hand in hand with death since I was old enough to wield a gun and you think that you can intimidate me with it now? I would slit my throat with my own hand rather than ever even consider sharing a bed with you!"

He had forgotten to breathe and when he finished his rant, he stood there, panting for air. A shadow of bitter disappointment crossed Mikhail's face. He withdrew the hand holding the papers and the soft curves of his mouth turned down.

"Is that your final answer?" he asked coldly.

"It is," Feilong replied, glaring under lowered brows.

"Disappointing," Mikhail said and looked away. He opened a drawer in the desk and rummaged through the clutter inside. "I had hoped that you had more sense of self-preservation than that. Unfortunately, I was wrong."

Feilong watched his every move intently. What would he do now? Kill him? Or hand him over to the highest bidder? It was unlikely that he would simply let him go and surrender him to his fate.

Mikhail pulled out something that was small and shiny, and expecting a phone, a gun, or a weapon of some other kind, Feilong couldn't immediately discern what it was. Mikhail opened the folder in his hand and retrieving the document inside, he let it drop to the floor. A clear click sounded very loud in the tense silence and a hungry, eager fire suddenly sprang to life. Finally recognising the bright gadget for a lighter and understanding what Arbatov was about to do, Feilong screamed in horror, but it was too late and in front of his very eyes, his father's deed burst into flame.

.

.

.

.

.

.

A/N: Teeheeee... clliffhanger! Yes. *runs*


	28. Chapter 28

Title: Dire Consequences 28/?

Fandom: Viewfinder

Pairings: Mik/Fei

Disclaimer: I do not own Viewfinder or any of its characters. This is a fanfic and I'm not making any profit from it.

Rating: R

Warnings: Dub-con, violence, angst. Heed the warnings, people! I am very serious.

Notes: Sorry for the hiatus, everyone! RL happened.

Part 28

"_No!"_ Feilong wailed and lunged forward. He slammed into Mikhail with mindless force, grabbed his arm and in a hopeless effort, nearly toppled them both.

But he was too late, because the old, fragile paper was worn out and dry. All it took was a fraction of a second and the greedy fire swallowed the entire document. The Russian did not fight him and let the deed fall, but Feilong did not have the presence of mind to note the significance of this. The last thing he had left over from his father was burning, turning to ashes right in front of him, and it was like watching him die all over again. It was unbearable and he was sure that he would have heard himself crack, if his anguished cry hadn't drowned out everything else.

In a single, sweeping move he took off his robe and threw it over the flame before the paper even had the chance to hit the floor. Encouraged by the sudden current, it roared and sprang higher, burning gleefully for a moment before it was thoroughly engulfed by the heavy fabric and finally extinguished.

But the deed was beyond salvation. The fire had eaten through it in the blink of an eye and even as he sank to his knees beside the puddle of spoiled silk, Feilong knew that once he lifted it, he would find nothing but ashes underneath. His cry died down to hoarse, broken sobs and he didn't even bother trying to stifle them. His hands trembled visibly when he clawed back the cloth. The fire had been so fast, the black remains still partially retained their original form, but they were so delicate, even a breath could make them wither to dust.

Arbatov had destroyed his father's deed. That he would actually do that... that somebody would even be capable of... His despair spiked and unable to contain it, Feilong screamed again, tearing at his hair until his lungs ached and the pain forced him to crumple over. Of all possible evils, this one had not occurred to him and yet Arbatov had done it— right in front of him— without warning, without hesitation; not even giving him a chance to... to... do what? But gods above, even if he had been willing to take back his defiance and choke on it as he swallowed it down, it was too late, because the deed was gone and with it, the last shreds he still had of his father's legacy.

Keening in his throat, he reached towards the crinkled pile, but couldn't bring himself to touch it, because he knew that the moment he did, it would disintegrate into... nothing. Only the corner that Arbatov had used to hold on to the deed when he'd set it alight was still solid and even that was burned yellow, but Feilong could still recognise the faint lines on it as handwriting where... where...

His mouth dropped open and he blinked back the tears furiously, unable to believe what he was seeing. He grabbed at the paper and the pathetic remains immediately disintegrated into filth. He lifted the stained corner up close, but the tears still stung his eyes and he couldn't see, so he wiped at them with black fingers, leaving sooty marks all over his wet face.

_...where his father's signature should have been!_

This was not his father's deed! He knew his father's writing, he knew his father's hand; each character of his name was stamped into his memory like an emblazoned brand and even though such a tiny piece of it remained, he knew that this... _this was not it!_

The relief gutted him. He couldn't breathe—the room spun out of control and he only barely managed to catch himself as he began to fall. For several long, terrible moments, it was a bitter struggle to remain conscious. A fake! Arbatov had burned a fake! And not even a good one at that, because even though he couldn't have seen this from the distance where he had been standing before, it was obvious that even the paper it was printed on was not of the same kind as the original!

But how was that possible? There was no way that Arbatov wouldn't have known that this was not...

The realisation finally set in and white as a sheet, he turned his wide eyes towards Mikhail. Shaken to the core, he shivered all over and couldn't make himself stop, but the Russian was absolutely calm as he stood a few feet away; his arms crossed and his hip leaned against the desk— just watching him.

"Care to reconsider your answer?" he asked and Feilong stared at him in horror, the violent tremors increasing visibly. He tried to speak, but his constricted throat failed to produce more than a garbled sound. The rage within him rose like noise, his vision tunnelled and the world turned red.

Of course, Arbatov had known! The vile, vicious son of a bitch—he had known all along and he had burned it on purpose so that he could watch him fall apart and… and do what? Show him who is in charge? There was precious little that Feilong had left of his father, but that made even the crumbs he still held on to that much more valuable. No other part of him was more vulnerable or more vital, yet the bastard—the unimaginable, fucking bastard—had ruthlessly ripped it out of him and torn it to pieces over a... a power trip? His breath came out short and shallow and his eyes narrowed to dark, blazing strips. "I will _end_ you," he growled hoarsely and though it was low, his voice carried volumes of threat.

Mikhail sighed and shook his head. "You do not want to do this," he said evenly and his reasonable tone was infuriating.

The long, wicked poker Feilong had discarded in his desperate bid to put out the fire lay on the floor and snarling like an animal, he grabbed it again as he rose; pouncing with pure, unbridled intention to kill. The aftermath of the trauma fuelled his madness and gave him strength he should not have had and though he was barely sane, when he struck down, a lifetime of practise gave precision to his strong, lethal hands.

But Mikhail was also a trained fighter and even though he had never accomplished Feilong's high level of skill, he was perfectly capable of repelling an attack, especially one that he had seen coming. His uniquely important and extremely dangerous position demanded at least the basic knowledge in self-defence, because he was exactly the sort of crucially vulnerable target that men like Feilong trained their whole lives to kill.

_Sambo_.

Feilong did not need to wade through the hatred clouding his judgement for this information; his body recognised the harsh defensive move and responded to it on raw instinct which was so deeply ingrained in him by years of brutal combat, the reactions now came to him as naturally as breathing. He rotated his weapon in mid-air, changed the direction and struck again. But Mikhail was ready for this, because he had been expecting it. His arm came up, protecting his head, and at the same time, his free hand caught the shaft in the middle, softening the blow that would have shattered the bone if allowed to strike with intended force. Not many people stood a chance against a Triad assassin in unarmed combat and Mikhail certainly wasn't one of them. People died when Feilong wanted them dead, but this time, he was outmatched. After so many weeks of sickness and recovery, his body was frail. The fever had drained him of vitality and he could only achieve a fraction of the speed he should have been capable of. Every inch of him hurt—he was disoriented, unfocused and weak. He burned— the heat of his fever fed the fire of his rage and he was nowhere close to the level of chilling efficiency he needed to kill.

Mikhail, on the other hand, was completely collected and calm. Feilong's temper swirled around him like a gale around stone— malevolent, violent and strong— but it was unfocused, unrestrained and ultimately, ineffective. "Last warning, Feilong," he said firmly. "Stop this. Now."

A very tired, very distant corner of Feilong's mind that was still linked to a lifetime of struggle for self- preservation set off a chorus of alarm bells, but they were easily ignored, because his anger easily drowned out everything else.

"Or _what?_" he sneered at the words, jerking violently in an effort to wrench the poker free from the Russian's grip. He fell back the fraction he needed to knee him in the groin, but Mikhail followed and fell to the side, avoiding the blow. He grabbed the poker with both hands, forcing Feilong to release it with one of his own so that he could spin backwards and gain the space he needed to kick out. It was a trap, but Feilong understood it too late, because he miscalculated the Russian's intention to wrest the crude weapon away and counted on the force of his grip for the leverage he needed to keep his balance. When Mikhail also released it a fraction of a second later, mirroring his move exactly, he lost control and started to fall. Even through the mist clouding his head, he immediately realised his mistake and though all it took was mere moments, it was too late to rectify it. While he struggled to regain his footing, Mikhail reeled him in with a sharp pull that was more than capable of withstanding his unremarkable weight and spun him around, slamming him face-front into the wall. The impact of the blow knocked the air out of him and Feilong's vision went dark for a minute, which was enough for Mikhail to pull up behind him and pin him there, with the length of the poker pressed painfully across his shoulder blades.

"Or I will make you," he breathed into his ear. _"Enough!"_

5


	29. Chapter 29

Title: Dire Consequences 29/?

Fandom: Viewfinder

Pairings: Mik/Fei

Disclaimer: I do not own Viewfinder or any of its characters. This is a fanfic and I'm not making any profit from it.

Rating: R

Warnings: Dub-con, violence, language, angst. Please take the warnings seriously, people, they are here for a reason!

Part 29

Feilong roared and flung his head back viciously, but Mikhail bore down hard, until the pressure forced him to cry out and helplessly, his hands splayed out in defeat on either side of his face.

"Did you really think that I would leave the deed in a place where you can get a hold of it before I am through with you?" Mikhail growled. "The only way you will _ever_ see it again is when and _if_ I decide to hand it over! You underestimate its significance to me, which is unsurprising, because as always, you underestimate your own importance to me too!"

Feilong fought him furiously, but the bite of the long, cold metal was excruciating and in spite of inhuman zeal, he could not regain an inch of leverage. Mikhail was taller, larger and heavier, and in this position, Feilong was hopelessly outmatched. Pressed up against the wall, he could not move, retreat or kick out. His head was filled with pain and white noise— he could not think and he struggled mindlessly, defiant in the face of exhaustion, even as his muscles cramped and screamed for relief.

"Ha!" he cried. "Importance, indeed! A night of idle pleasure, if I understood your proposal correctly! You place a high value on your own entertainment!"

Mikhail laughed. "You? Understood me correctly?" he said. "That would be a precedent! Believe me when I say that there is _nothing_ even _remotely_ entertaining about this for anyone involved, least of all me!"

"I weep for your hardships! Truly, I do!" Feilong sneered and bucked against him, until the sharp edges of the poker bit deep into his flesh and made him cry out in pain.

"Go ahead," Mikhail growled and the anger was unmistakable in his low, steady voice. "Mock me! It is what you have been doing for years, so why stop now?"

Feverish and hysterical, Feilong laughed. "Is _that_ what all this is about?" he said. "I rejected you— and this is your _revenge?"_

Completely taken aback, Mikhail remained silent for a long, dizzying moment. He repeated, "Revenge?" His voice was raw when he spoke; astounded and slow, almost slow enough for Feilong to hear the seconds tick by as he processed the new, chilling depth it had taken on. "After everything we've been through, after all the dark holes I had to get you out of and the sleepless nights I spent by your side _that_ is what you say to me? _My revenge?_ After all these years? Of all people, against _you_?"

He loosened his grip and instantly, Feilong pushed back, gaining the inches he needed to elbow him in the chest. With a grunt, Mikhail fell back and Feilong twisted around, attempting to punch him in the gut, but there was no time and no space. Infuriated, Mikhail immobilised him again, this time face to face, with the poker pressed painfully against his throat and only a fraction away from choking him unconscious.

"We aren't making progress here, are we?" he growled.

"_Fuck. You."_ Feilong ground out hoarsely and dark silence fell between them. His own heartbeat sounded deafening in his ears as a change came over Mikhail and he shrank before it, trapped between the wall, the steel and the hard weight of his body.

"Yes," Mikhail leaned in and whispered against his face. "That is the plan. I have grown tired of patience."

Unbalanced, angry and yet strangely frightened by the ominous tone, Feilong hissed and writhed in a attempt to get away, but Mikhail pinned him down roughly, cutting off his air supply, until his head spun and his vision went white. It took him many moments to regain his senses. Finally, he realised between harsh, gulping breaths that Mikhail had loosened the hold and allowed him to breathe, but he never moved away and his mouth still lingered near, too near to the line of his jaw; a hairbreadth away from touch. Surrounded by his heat and with their bodies pressed tight against each other, Feilong became aware of the long, hard length of the Russian's cock against his heaving stomach— the erection feeding off the friction, the closeness, adrenaline and rage. The sudden bout of panic threatened to suffocate him and wide eyed, he instinctively went still, as if minimising the contact would make it go away. Mikhail waited for him to calm down; his breath heavy and hot against his skin and taking advantage of the fact that he no longer struggled, he pressed up against him in ways that his squirming body hadn't allowed before. Horrified and distressed, Feilong choked on a gasp.

"Now you will listen carefully, because we don't seem to have understood each other before," Mikhail said in his ear. "You and I are long past idle pleasures and one-night stands. You no longer get to decide whether or not you will have a relationship with me, my love— we already _are_ in one! The only choice you have before you at this point is whether or not you will come to my bed willingly, because if you do not, I will drag you there! There is nothing left for you except for me. I am the island in the midst of your ruin! You will not leave me. Ever."

"You are delusional!" Feilong said. "I will _never_ be yours!"

"You already are mine!" Mikhail roared. "You have been mine, ever since you decided to throw your life away over Asami and the imaginary relationship you think that the two of you had!"

"It was not imaginary!" Feilong cried. "And even if it was, my life is my own! It is my right to throw it away in whatever manner I please!"

Mikhail grinned darkly. "True," he said, suddenly lowering his tone. "And since you have done such a spectacular job of doing so, it is _my_ right to pick it up! You have done this to yourself and all because of something that was never real to begin with!"

Pale and furious, Feilong bared his teeth and hissed like a wounded beast. "Don't you dare! You don't know anything about it, so don't you fucking _dare_!"

Mikhail grinned humourlessly. "Oh, but I do!" he said. "He was using you, Feilong! He lied to you and you broke to pieces on his command! He left you to rot in prison when he was done, because he had no reason to return! He went back to his own life, unscathed by the ruin he had made of yours!"

"No!" Feilong roared and his eyes burned. He balled his fists and struck Mikhail on the chest as hard as he could. "Shut up! You have no right!"

"I will not shut up!" Mikhail refused to budge. "I have every right, because this— _this_ is the man you rejected me for! He knew _everything_, Feilong! He has known from the start! When he came to me to hand over the deed, Asami knew why I wanted it, he knew what I was going to do, _and he didn't even care!"_

"Stop!" Feilong cried, desperate and insane. "You bastard! You fucking bastard! Just…stop!"

"Why don't you make me?" Mikhail yelled in return. "Why can't you? Even now, on the brink of your ruin, you stand there, clinging to denial! Tell me, Feilong, why am I holding you down with such ease? Why can't you fight me off? _This_ is what you have done to yourself in your madness! And for what? You brought down your own roof for a man that was never yours to begin with, because you did not think to lock your doors when you abandoned your affairs to go meddling in things which are no longer your business!"

"And—what?" Feilong mocked. "Should I be grateful that you were there to take over my ruined house?"

"I am the only reason your house standing, you little fool!" Mikhail replied. "You may not be grateful, but you are fortunate that I got there first, because if it had been someone else, you would have found nothing but ashes upon your return and your enemies would have soaked them with your blood!"

Feilong laughed at him. "And why do you think that you are so different?" he sneered. "Because you _care_? Thanks to you, I have _nothing_! Thanks to you, I am _nowhere_! That is the result of your _concern_! Self-serving hypocrite! Deny it, if you dare! I spit on it and I spit on you!"

"Don't mistake me," Mikhail warned. "If I am to be your downfall, then so be it! For years, I tried to deter you from this road, but here you are anyway, at the end of your path! I have only ever wanted good things for you, but _you_ would not let them happen! Every move you made was just another screw in your own destruction and every step you took was yet another going backwards, constantly, consistently closer to _him_! I am drawing the line at Asami! For better or worse, he will not be your fate! I will have you in any way I can—ruined if I can't have you powerful, and if you do not come to me on your own, I will make you follow!"

"Then do it!" Feilong cried. "What are you waiting for? Force me! Why don't you? You've had plenty of opportunities! How many days have you had me at your mercy, unconscious and drugged? Why didn't you take what you wanted? Get your men to hold me down, if you think that you cannot handle me on your own! What's the point of this whole production?"

"The point?" Mikhail said. "The point is that, unlike _some _people, I prefer my lovers awake and willing, even when they turn out to be vicious, wounded dragons that bite and wreak destruction upon those who try to help them! For the first time, at least, I would like to have you in my bed without having to cuff you to the headboard!"


	30. Chapter 30

Title: Dire Consequences 30/?

Fandom: Viewfinder

Pairings: Mik/Fei

Disclaimer: I do not own Viewfinder or any of its characters. This is a fanfic and I'm not making any profit from it.

Rating: R

Warnings: Dub-con, violence, language, angst.

Part 30

"Are you _serious_?"

"Let me make myself clear," Mikhail said and the strange contradiction in his voice— the cold, cold inflection underlined by so much raging heat— crawled down Feilong's spine. "Because so far, we have obviously failed at communication. It is your choice! You can let me clean up your mess for you and keep you alive. In exchange, you will submit to me! If you do, I will give you back your deed, so that you can save face and continue to exist uncontested in Hong Kong."

Feilong glared. "It will _never_ happen!"

"Or you can make it difficult," Mikhail went on, unperturbed. "Without my help, your reputation will be ruined. Once the details of this whole Asami debacle emerge, your power, your position, will crumble. Clearly, you understand my dilemma— if I allowed you to return under these circumstances, you would inevitably be killed, which is simply _not_ an option, so I will make this very easy. A plane is waiting for you on my roof. _You_ decide where you want it to take you. You can make the wise choice and tomorrow, we fly to Hong Kong. Or you can continue with your obstinacy, in which case, we are going to Russia."

Feilong's eyes went wide and he opened his mouth to protest, but Mikhail didn't let him interrupt.

"Siberia has a bad reputation, but, really, that is just a point of view," he said. "Personally, I have always loved it and am very fond of my estates there, with all their limited access routes that are subjugated directly to me. There is this one in particular, though, way out in the north, that I haven't found very useful, until now. For a long time, I wondered if it had even been worth the effort I went to to get it out of the hands of the state, but even the government couldn't see why they should want it and sold it back to me, at a crazy price, of course."

Feilong stared at him, no longer even knowing what to say. "You see," Mikhail continued, "it is very interesting. It consists of a splendid winter palace, surrounded by miles upon miles of land inhabited only by birds and wild beasts. It is a result of some dark family history; built in dire need, centuries ago, by an ancestor of mine, who'd been unhealthily obsessed with, of all people, his own sister. Through this unholy union, she produced a child and it was a nasty business from the very start. In the first years, small, furry animals showed up butchered and skinned, but as the boy got older, the pets were replaced by people, leaving the father with no choice, but to send both the mother and her hellish spawn into exile from which they could never return. And while there may have been roads leading to this place at one time, there are none left now. These days, the only way to reach it is by air. Don't get me started on all the trouble I had renovating it! It cost me a fortune! I could have funded the yearly budget of a small country with the final balance!"

"Insanity clearly runs in the family," Feilong growled. "Nice to know, but what's your point?"

"The significance of the house's origins didn't occur to me until today," Mikhail said. "But now I see why it will prove useful."

"Why?"

Mikhail grinned humourlessly. "Because the furniture bolts to the floor."

Feilong flinched and Mikhail met his big, horrified eyes— letting the implications sink in.

"I don't care what you do," Feilong whispered. "I will never consent to this!"

Mikhail smiled. "Yes, you've made it clear," he replied. "You would rather die."

"I would!"

"But would you rather watch your father's deed burn?"

Feilong breathed in sharply and went very still under him. His face paled and his nostrils flared. "You wouldn't," he whispered with effort.

Mikhail raised a brow at the blatant challenge. "Wouldn't I?" he said coldly. "The masks are down Feilong. I said I would make this very easy. Do not test me, because you are right about one thing; the deed means absolutely _nothing_ to me and the next time you defy me, I _will_ burn the original!"

Feilong swallowed, breathing hard and shivering. He didn't dare to say anything. His lips trembled and he glared hatefully under lowered brows, struggling to restrain himself as pressure built in his chest and he felt the overwhelming need to scream. Finally, he understood the point of that little exercise—it was a reminder exactly of what he stood to lose! The son of a bitch knew him so well.

Mikhail leaned in and the heat of his breath washed over Feilong's bare neck, making him shudder and shrink. "Do you doubt it?" he said into his ear and his voice was hard, low and dangerous. In panic, Feilong turned away, instinctively straining to escape the unwanted proximity.

"Let… let me go!" he cried, renewing his struggles. He pushed on Mikhail's chest with all the strength he could summon, but he may as well have been trying to move a mountain. The Russian forced the hard, unforgiving length of the poker higher up his exposed throat, making him to look up. He met Feilong's dark, hateful eyes and repeated, "Do you doubt it?"

Feilong didn't. He didn't doubt it at all. Cornered and subdued, he shook his head the best he could under the painful bite of metal beneath his jaw, no longer daring to retaliate. "Let me go!" he repeated, but Mikhail still didn't budge.

"Say it," he ordered and Feilong swallowed again, clenching his fists at his sides until his knuckles turned white.

"I do not," he whispered, feeling like the submission would choke him.

"Good," Mikhail said. Finally, he relented and fell back, releasing the suffocating hold. "Remember that before you say no to me again!" He spun the poker in his hand and struck down, splintering his desk.

Shaken and exhausted, Feilong did not follow. Shivering to the core, he sank against the wall and buried his face under the wild fall of his loose, tangled hair. The rising wail in his throat grew until he could no longer contain it and finally, it broke out in a long, wrenching cry. Mikhail walked to the window and leaned on to the deep alcove as if to look outside, but his eyes were closed and his shoulders stooped with strange sorrow and fatigue. He waited in silence for Feilong's anguish to exhaust itself, listening as it faded into dry, heaving gasps.

"I wish it hadn't come to this," he said quietly. "But here we are anyway, so to avoid further misunderstandings, let me explain exactly what you will be agreeing to."

Feilong looked up at him wearily. "I will not be..." he began, but Mikhail turned sharply and remembering the threat issued only seconds ago, he bit his tongue.

"Wise choice," Mikhail said, his voice taking on a low and dangerous quality. "I'll give you time, because I want you to think about what your answer will be. I want to think about it carefully, because I will show you no mercy. You will come to me knowing exactly what I am going to do to you."

"How much time?"

"Until sundown."

"Sundown?" Feilong cried in outrage. "That is no time at all!"

Mikhail checked his watch. "You have three hours. It is enough. I will send my staff away. Tonight, the house will be empty."

Feilong glared, but he said nothing.

"While I'm waiting, I will repair this door you have broken," Mikhail said. "And when you come, I will lock it behind you. I will lead you to the bed you've torn apart and fuck you on these sheets you've destroyed until you weep with pleasure and beg me for mercy. If you struggle, I will hold you down. If you scream, I will not listen. When I am through with you, you will never think of another man again. I promise you."

"You are out of your fucking mind."

"No, my love, I am not. I simply know you. I know what you crave."

"You know nothing about me!" Feilong hissed.

"No?" Mikhail replied. "I know that night after night, you wake up in sweat, with your body tied up in knots of longing and need. I know that you ache and that your skin burns until you are shaking with fever. I know that you seek solitude, so that you can scream in frustration until your throat is raw and when that does nothing to relieve you, in defiance and despair, you seek satisfaction from your little servants and slaves, who have no fucking clue how to please you, because even if they did, they would be too terrified to try."

Shivering, Feilong stared. "Why are you doing this to me?" he whispered. "What have you possibly got to gain?"

"You keep asking me the same fucking question and I still have only one fucking answer!" Mikhail scowled, struggling to contain his impatience. "Did you not understand a word of what I just said?"

"What possible difference does it make whether I consent or not?" Feilong said. "I don't love you. I will never love you! If you make me to do this, I will hate you forever!"

"I suppose you will," Mikhail said, shrugging with strange resignation. "But I will bear that burden. I have always wanted you to be happy— with someone, anyone— even if I couldn't be the one! If that had been your choice, I would not have stood in your way! But you have firmly decided upon misery and since that is the case, I see no reason why you should not be miserable with me!" He laid down the poker he still held in his hand and walked over. He reached out to touch Feilong's cheek and cleaned the soot from it with his thumb. "Now, if you will excuse me, I need to go and order a new door."


End file.
